Tipping Point
by susieq666
Summary: Horatio suffers a horrendous lapse of judgment. He leaves the Crime Lab, and Miami. Seven years on, Eric still misses him and struggles to understand what happened to the man he loved like a brother.
1. Chapter 1

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 1

"Do I _have_ to do this, Chief?"

Chief of Police Martinez allowed himself a brief smile at the obvious reluctance.

"It's just PR, Eric. There's always a bit, you know that."

At forty-five, Eric Delko was still a handsome man. His buzz-cut hair was gray, there were deep lines on his face, but the dark eyes were as bright and alert as ever. Martinez admitted to himself, he'd been wrong – the younger man had, after all, been an excellent choice to run the Crime Lab. He'd doubted he'd prove mature enough. If it hadn't been for a lack of other good candidates, and a strong recommendation from the man's predecessor, he wouldn't have made the promotion. Now, seven years on, he was well pleased.

"So what do you want me to say?"

"Oh, nothing deep. What it feels like to move to the new building. Bit of history of the existing place. How Forensics is expanding. You know the drill – make the public feel we're looking after them."

Eric sighed. "Okay, Chief."

"Are you sorry to be moving?"

"I suppose I am. I mean, we're packed in like sardines, but I've got a lot of history with this place. I've been here… seventeen… eighteen years. Man and boy, as they say."

"Is it that long?"

"Yep." There was an odd loaded silence.

Martinez broke it. "Do you ever hear from Horatio?"

A small look of pain crossed Eric's face. "No. I… don't even know where he is."

The Chief was tempted to comment further, but the expression on the other man's face stopped him. "Okay, Eric. That's all – the interview's arranged for three o'clock."

* * *

It had been seven years. There were few days when he didn't think about his former boss. It wasn't that he dwelt on it, but they had been so close, once. Apart from a natural affinity, they were also brothers-in-law. Horatio had been married to Eric's favorite sister, though not for long. His marrying her had put Marisol in the firing line – within days of the wedding she had been gunned down, dying in front of her new husband in hospital. Horatio's grief, heavily laced with guilt, had almost swallowed him up for a while. He and Horatio had gone on a search for vengeance… It had brought them even closer.

After that, they often hunted as a team in their quest for justice. Eric trusted him, loved him even, which made subsequent events so hard to bear, or understand.

There had been murmurings that Horatio was bending the rules, that he treated suspects with a brutality that had never been part of his make-up. Eric rarely saw anything he disapproved of, although he knew he'd justify Horatio's actions regardless. He had the same thirst for justice that his boss had. Some of the low-lifes they encountered would have tried the patience of a saint. If things got a bit 'physical', he had no objection. There had been a couple of complaints against him, but nothing had stuck, partly because Horatio was very very good. He had a superlative arrest and conviction record. He was a rare and talented combination of policeman and scientist, and no one in the department really wanted to think badly of him. So if lines were crossed, then interpretations were stretched to accommodate his behaviour.

But, inevitably, it came to a head. There was a call to a poor area in the city… He and Horatio were travelling separately that day. He couldn't now remember why, or what he'd been doing. He arrived at the shabby single-storied house within about ten minutes of the call. Horatio's Hummer, empty, was parked in front. An ambulance, back doors open but also empty, stood behind the Hummer. Eric ran inside.

There was a strong smell of blood. A young girl, almost naked, lay on the sofa, being attended by two paramedics. She was whimpering softly. On the floor, a man, middle-aged, he'd almost say elderly, with a spreading bloodstain on his shirt. He noted straggly gray hair, a moustache, an almost toothless mouth hanging open. His pants were round his ankles; it didn't much of a brain to work out what had been going on. Horatio was leaning against a wall, arms folded, virtually expressionless.

"You okay?" Eric's immediate question… as always.

He got an affirmative grunt.

"Is he dead?" He indicated the man.

A hint of a smile. "Oh yes."

"The girl?"

One of the paramedics replied. "She's stable enough to move. We'll take her to the hospital now, if that's okay, lieutenant."

"I'll follow you." Horatio roused himself. "Eric, wait for the ME, will you? And process the scene… Not that there's anything much to prove."

Eric watched them leave, then bent over the dead man. A shot to the heart had clearly been fatal. Horatio, a good shot, frequently preferred heart to head. Eric flipped back the shirt tail and caught his breath. The genitals were a mess of blood and flesh, the stain spreading out on the floor. _Oh Horatio… no… _He always remembered how the shock had hit him. He knew how attacks on children affected his boss, but even so… Would he really have delivered that shot? And before or after the other?

"Eric?" The medical examiner came in. "One for me?"

"Yes. Rapist - probable pedophile – they've just taken a young girl to hospital – Horatio shot him."

"Twice, by the look of it." Tom's voice didn't betray his thoughts.

"Tom…"

"I'm not judging, Eric. I'll stick with the facts."

"Can you tell… which shot was first?"

"Let me get him on my table… but, from the amount of blood, I'd surmise the… er… groin shot was first."

"I was afraid of that."

The ME looked about to say something, but stopped and shook his head briefly. He signalled to his assistant, and they quickly loaded the corpse into a body bag, then into the van.

With a sigh, Eric stood up and went about the routine processing of the small house. It stank of poor hygiene – a kitchen piled with dirty dishes, a bathroom that had never seen cleaning products. There were empty food cartons and discarded clothes strewn around. He collected blood and semen samples from the sofa, and took the sheet from the dirty unmade bed; a phial of Viagra from the bathroom; a notebook with cryptic notations in it; underwear – both men's and women's... well, a teenage girl's, more like. And a piece of iron, like a poker, with fresh blood on the end. Then he searched the house, thoroughly. It sparsely furnished. He uncovered boxes of pornographic photos, involving children and young teenagers, but there was no computer, no smart phone… No phone at all, in fact. An old-school pedo… More surprisingly, he found no weapons.

An old pick-up stood in the drive, still with a trace of heat in the engine. Eric made a call and arranged to have it removed to the crime lab. He locked the house and took what evidence he had back to the lab. He wanted to find Horatio, but knew, if he broke off to do that, the chain of evidence would be compromised. So he dutifully booked everything in, put DNA testing in motion, then headed for the hospital.

He found his boss in the waiting area outside the OR. Horatio sat with his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed.

Eric sat down beside him. "Boss..?"

Horatio sat forward and acknowledged him with a faint smile.

"How's the girl?"

"They think she'll recover, but she's got a lot of internal damage… They've had to operate." He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Put it this way – she'll never be a mother."

"That's horrible."

"It is. And we don't even know who she is. Did you find anything interesting at the house?"

"Nothing you wouldn't expect." He hesitated. "No weapons…"

"He wasn't armed."

"Oh."

"Say it, Eric! Why did I shoot him?"

"If you thought it was necessary…"

Horatio was silent for a while, then said quietly, "I lost it, Eric. I heard the girl screaming, went in – he didn't hear me. He was in the middle of raping her. I grabbed him and virtually pulled him out of her." He looked down at his hands. "Sorry, that sounds… gross…"

"I imagine it was. Go on…"

"He was standing there, his dick in his hand – he still had an erection, for God's sake…"

"Viagra."

"Explains it. And he laughed, accused me of interrupting 'a tender moment'. And, I lost it." Horatio shrugged. "No excuses. That's what happened."

"I understand."

"IAB won't. Nor anyone else. Rightly so." He looked at the younger man's worried face. "I can't get out of this, Eric. I'm not going to lie."

"But, H, you can't go down for a scumbag rapist! The world's better without him."

"I broke the rules."

"There were no witnesses."

"There were no weapons."

"Horatio…" Eric said desperately. "If you _thought_ he was armed…"

"I didn't. Anyway, that might excuse the kill-shot…"

Eric stared at him. "You know you'll go down. Unless we work something out…"

"Stop right there! No one is getting involved in this but me!"

"But…"

"No buts, Eric. My call – a bad one, as it happens – so I take the rap. Understood?"

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 2

At work the next day, there was no sign of Horatio, but Eric was immediately summoned to Chief Martinez' office.

"Eric, are you happy to run the lab for a week or so?"

"Of course, Chief." It wasn't the first time. He'd been Horatio's deputy for some years, although, admittedly, Horatio's absences had been few and far between. "Where's the boss?"

"He's suspended from duty. I'm sure you know why. It won't stay secret, but I don't want a lot of gossip and speculation going round, until the investigation's complete."

Eric nodded. There was no point in arguing about it.

"IAB wants to speak to you later," the Chief continued.

"I wasn't there, you know."

"I know. Horatio's made a full statement on tape anyway." Martinez sighed, his expression revealing concern and disbelief. "I don't know what's going to happen…"

There were a hundred questions in Eric's mind, yet he knew there was no point in voicing them. It would be decided in due course, and no one would discuss it with him. The only thing to do was to run Horatio's lab in his absence, and hope it wasn't going to end as badly as he suspected it would.

He returned to work to be pestered by the other members of the team, who, understandably, wanted answers he was unable to give.

"Look, I wasn't there, all right? All I know is, he shot a man who turned out to be unarmed, and he's suspended from duty while it's investigated." He knew he sounded short-tempered. He took a deep breath. "Let's just get on with the evidence… We still haven't got IDs on the victim, or the perp, come to that. The perp should be easy – housing records… The victim… Nat, call Dade Memorial and see how she is. Maybe you can talk to her…"

He left everyone working, and went to the morgue, to the only other person who knew the details…

Tom looked up as he came in. "Eric?"

"Tom… Have you finished yesterday's… body?" He almost said 'victim', and had to remind himself that the victim in this was the girl. If the man was a victim, it was only of Horatio's rage.

"I have. The heart wound was fatal. The other not so, although it would have been, fairly quickly, due to blood loss."

"So it came first."

"It did. I've sent the bullets upstairs." Tom sounded determinedly matter-of-fact. "I've also sent blood to be analysed for hepatitis, HIV, that sort of thing. In view of the… circumstances."

"I really hope they're negative."

"How is the girl?"

"I don't know. They had to operate on her for internal injuries. As Horatio put it, she'll never be a mother."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "And how's Horatio?"

Eric smiled wanly. "I don't know that either. He's suspended." He turned to go, then looked back at the ME. "Tom, you're a doctor…"

"I hope so."

"Why? Why would he… do that? I mean, Horatio… He's got a temper, but he's always controlled it."

"Have you spoken to him at all?"

"Briefly, at the hospital. He just said he 'lost it'."

"Well, I'm no psychiatrist, but… if I was asked – which I won't be – I'd guess some sort of mental breakdown. A sudden loss of that control. I don't know, Eric… Perhaps he's tired, or depressed, or unwell… Perhaps he's just seen too much. So he, as he said, 'lost it'."

"I hope they see it that way. Thanks, Tom – keep this between you and me. The others know something happened, but not the details. I'd rather it stayed that way for now."

"Of course."

They put a name to the dead rapist, and Natalia departed to the hospital to talk to the girl. Eric took over Horatio's office, and tried to concentrate on the general work of the lab. It was hard, but he knew he owed it to Horatio.

* * *

IAB summoned him just after lunch. He had met Jack Spicer, Stetler's replacement, a few times, but hadn't yet experienced his interviewing technique with regard to anything contentious. He was a very different man to his predecessor. He came over as kind, and sympathetic towards his interviewee. It made him more dangerous than Rick Stetler – he lulled you into a false sense of security, which tempted you to say more than you meant. Whereas Rick Stetler had immediately put your back up, Jack Spicer made you want to confide. Eric had little doubt which was more effective, and was on his guard.

The gray-haired man indicated the chair opposite. He appeared older than Stetler, although Eric had never been one hundred per cent certain that Rick didn't dye his hair. "I'm sorry to put you through this, Mr Delko – would you prefer I called you Eric?"

"Yes, Eric…" He sat down, trying to appear relaxed, while concentrating hard.

"You know why you're here, of course. I'm looking into Lieutenant Caine's actions yesterday… You should know that he's already given a full account on tape, although I haven't yet spoken to him in person. And I have seen the ME's report."

It was a clear warning not to make things up. It was very Horatio – he was making sure Eric wasn't put in an awkward position. "Then you know I wasn't present…"

"I know you came in after the shooting, but tell me everything you observed."

Eric repeated the events as he remembered them. "And Horatio – Lieutenant Caine – was watching the paramedics. When they took the girl to the hospital, he left to go too."

"Did he say anything?"

"Only to tell me to wait for the ME and to process the scene."

"What did you think when you looked at the body?"

"What did I _think?_"

"Yes, what did you think? Typical shots?"

Eric tried not to fidget. "There's no such thing."

"Come on, Eric! How would you take someone down?"

"Head shot or heart shot… I suppose… If that's what you mean."

"And Horatio?"

"Heart… Usually."

Spicer changed tack. "You've known him a long time…"

It wasn't a question, but it didn't seem designed to trick. "Fifteen odd years."

"You're close?"

"We are." Eric wasn't going to deny him.

"So what did you think?"

"I don't know what I thought! I suppose, that something had happened that I didn't know anything about."

Spicer sighed. "I understand your loyalty, Eric."

"It's nothing to do with loyalty! I wasn't there! I don't know why he shot him…" His voice trailed off. "… like he did."

Spicer nodded, and made a quick note. "Did you talk to him again?"

"Briefly. At the hospital. We only spoke about the girl… how she was."

"He said nothing about the shooting?"

"Not really." But he couldn't hold Spicer's gaze.

"Well, never mind. Have you ever seen him take drugs?"

This time Eric laughed. "No! He hardly even drinks. Honestly – that's not loyalty speaking. He doesn't. Ask anyone."

"Fair enough – that I do believe. I understand you found no weapons at the scene…"

He wished the IAB man wouldn't keep jumping from subject to subject. He forced himself to be calm. "I didn't, no. Unless you count a poker the girl was raped with."

"Do you think Horatio could have thought the man was armed?"

"I suppose he must have. I don't know. Ask him."

"Oh, I will."

"It happens, you know. In the heat of the moment…" _Don't say anymore, Eric… _He knew he was reacting to Spicer's conciliatory manner.

"I know that. In any case, that's not really what this is about, as I'm sure you realise."

"Yeah, I do." Eric looked down at his lap.

"One more question… You say you're close – have you noticed any changes in Horatio lately?"

"Like what?"

"Anything. I've been hearing things about him for some time…"

"Again, like what?"

"You know he's had complaints against him…"

"Which he was cleared of. It goes with the territory."

Spicer's face showed a flash of impatience. "Even so…"

"Horatio is not a violent man," Eric said firmly. "Only as much as he's had to be."

Spicer seemed to realise that he'd get nothing more. "All right, Eric. That's all. Thank you for your time."

Eric returned to work, going over the interview in his head. He was reasonably satisfied he hadn't made anything worse for Horatio, though he hadn't done much to defend him either. Still, there wasn't anything more he could do. Except wait…

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 3

Eric took stock of what they'd got. Most of the evidence was obvious. The bullets were Horatio's. Bullets – two. Oddly, no one had queried why there were two, but Eric wasn't going to point that out. For once he was glad it was one of Calleigh's days off. DNA proved the rape, as if it could do anything else.

Natalia had returned from the hospital. "Well, she's going to recover… I wouldn't say she's going to be 'all right'. I can't see how anyone would be all right after that."

"Did you get a name?"

"She says she's called Candy Brown, and she says she's sixteen."

"You sound sceptical," Eric observed.

"I am. If she's more than fourteen, I'm Kim Kardashian. She gave me a local address – a hostel – but she was very cagey. Wouldn't say anything about her family. I suspect she's a runaway. But she let me take fingerprints – we've already got her DNA – so I'll see if I can find her in Missing Persons…"

"Okay, leave it with you." He turned to Ryan. "This guy… Wilson Dobbs? There's no way this was an isolated incident, or a first time. Can you investigate that? See if you can match any other assaults…"

"Will do."

No one seemed to want to mention Horatio. Or maybe they wanted to, but didn't know what to say. There was a strange atmosphere hanging over the lab, and Eric, not knowing how to diffuse it, retreated to the office.

Hesitating only briefly, he called his boss's number. Horatio was slow answering, but, when he did, he sounded normal enough.

"Eric…"

"H… How're you doing?"

"I'm all right."

"Sure?"

"Yeah… How's the girl – do you know? I've been ordered to stay away from the case, which includes her."

"Nat's spoken to her. She thinks she's a runaway. We've got a name, but not sure it's genuine… She's going to recover. At least, I hope so - Tom's doing tests for HIV and so on. As she was raped." Eric knew he was babbling. "The man doesn't seem to have any relatives, so no one's going to try for a wrongful death case… Sorry, I shouldn't have said that." The whole situation was upsetting him. "Horatio, do you want me to come round?"

There was a soft laugh. "No. I'm okay. Actually… I'd rather be left alone for a day or two. No offense."

"None taken. You're… not going to… er…"

"Throw myself off the balcony? No, I'm not. Don't worry about me, brother. Just give me a bit of time on my own… A few days to gather my thoughts."

Eric could do nothing but comply, though he added, "You need me, call me. Day or night."

* * *

It proved to be a busy week. A multiple gang shooting kept them all on overtime. The rape case was quickly wound up when 'Candy' discharged herself from hospital and disappeared. The blood tests came back negative for HIV and hepatitis, but no one ever had a chance to tell the girl. Eric promised himself he'd return to the case when he could. Meanwhile, he managed to avoid discussing their boss with any of the team, even Calleigh.

Some days passed, and Eric toyed with contacting Horatio again. Before he could, however, Chief Martinez called them all together.

He was brief and to the point. "I want you to hear this from me. With immediate effect, Horatio Caine is no longer in charge of the Crime Lab. Eric Delko will remain in temporary charge, and the position will be advertised. Any of you may apply."

"You _fired_ him?" Ryan blurted out what they were all thinking.

The chief frowned at him, then relented. "In point of fact, he resigned, from the lab and from MDPD." His tone indicated there would be no discussion. He signalled Eric. "Eric, a private word, please."

In the office – Horatio's office – Eric stood in stunned silence.

"Are you going to be able to hold them together?" the Chief asked.

"I don't know. They'll be pretty upset. Horatio means a lot to them."

"I know that. And you should know that this wasn't forced on him."

"No?" Eric sounded sceptical.

"Do you think I want to lose a man like Horatio?"

"I don't know. In view of…"

"In view of a single out-of-character event. I offered him a sort of probation, as long as he accepted psychiatric counselling."

Eric chuckled, without humor. "Which he refused."

"He seemed set on… martyrdom. Actually, it's not technically a resignation; he's taken early retirement. So the investigation's closed, and he leaves with a clean sheet. Eric, truly, I couldn't dissuade him. What you tell the others is up to you. Now, about the job… I expect you to apply."

"I don't know." Eric's mind was clearly elsewhere.

"I mean it – it's a good opportunity for you. You have to accept we've lost Horatio. Now, the rules say we throw the job open, but we'll try to have it all settled within a month. Okay?"

"Okay." Eric sank into the chair as the Chief left the office. As soon as he'd gone, Calleigh entered.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she demanded.

Eric sighed. "Sit down. I'll tell you…" He repeated everything he knew. "I really couldn't discuss it before."

She was silent for a while. "Did you ever think something like this might happen?"

He considered the question. "I suppose I was less surprised than I should have been, thinking back."

She nodded. "Where is he? Have you spoken to him?"

"I have. He seems okay. He did ask to be left alone for a few days – to 'gather his thoughts'. The Chief offered him a way back, you know. He refused. He's actually taken early retirement."

"Well, he's… fifty-nine? He can take his pension if he wants. Perhaps it's for the best."

"What? Calleigh! How can you say that?"

"For him, I mean, not for us. He's so weary. And so… used up by the job, and things that have happened… At least, I've thought so."

"You may be right."

"I'll go round and see him at the weekend." She stood up to go.

Eric was surprised that she'd shown less shock at the news than anyone else. Perhaps, out of all of them, she bought less into his 'superman' status, and saw the human behind it. He felt guilty that he hadn't seen it first. Or had he? Had he seen the cracks in Horatio's matchless character and simply ignored them? Had he, in fact, failed him?

* * *

That evening, from home, he called Horatio. The call went to voicemail. He tried several times during the next hour or so, but got no reply. He looked up the landline number at Horatio's apartment, and called that. It rang unanswered.

Worry increasing by the minute, he got into his car and drove there. He still had a key to the place, but he buzzed first. Silence… With an odd feeling of dread, he unlocked the door.

The place was empty. Completely empty. Well, the furniture was there, but not a shred of clothing, or a trace of food. Or books. Or DVDs. Nothing. It smelled faintly of lavender. Further investigation seemed to indicate that it had been cleaned from top to bottom.

Eric sat down on the bare mattress of the bed, confused and anxious. Gradually he made sense of it; an empty apartment, cleaned and with all its furniture… suggested rental. He felt some relief that Horatio hadn't 'thrown himself off the balcony', but deeply hurt that he'd gone, without a word. Hurt, then angry…

"Horatio." He spoke aloud, his voice echoing slightly in the empty place. "Couldn't you have told me? I thought we were friends!" He got up, sudden tears pricking his eyelids. "God damn you! You stupid selfish bastard!" He cursed him roundly in Spanish and English, while tears ran down his face. His mentor, his friend, and his brother. His feelings of bewilderment, disbelief and something like bereavement overwhelmed him. He loved the man, and knew he'd struggle without him. But clearly, the feelings hadn't been mutual. He was gone.

It took him a while to recover his composure. He looked once more round the empty rooms, then carefully double-locked the door. A trip down to the parking garage confirmed what he already knew – Horatio's Lexus was gone. He returned to his own car and drove home.

There, he opened a can of beer and sat down, deep in thought. He wondered if he'd overreacted. Perhaps Horatio intended to contact him the next day. Of course, Eric was in an ideal position to track a missing person. Except it was definitely against the rules to use police facilities for personal inquiries. They came down hard on it, after discovering a spate of officers checking on girlfriends and exes. And if Horatio _was_ missing, it was by choice anyway.

He opened his laptop and searched for rental property. He found the apartment easily, and made a note of the agency handling it. He resolved to visit them the next day. That much didn't break any rules…

Apart from that… what could he do? Everything else – the car registration, cell phone tracking, financial records – might find Horatio, but was a blatant abuse of police powers… and strictly unethical. If found out, he risked losing his own job too. He decided to sleep on it. Not that he expected to sleep well.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 4

Any thoughts Eric had about tracing Horatio soon went out of the window. He had forgotten just how much work was involved in heading up the lab. He often wondered how Horatio had kept up with it. True, he'd stood in for him before, but not for more than four or five days at a time. He also had to apply for the permanent position, and prepare to attend interviews. And, he noticed, Chief Martinez was around much more than usual. He suspected he was being watched.

They were busy, understaffed, and the team – Horatio's team – were restive and miserable, so much so that Eric wasn't at all sure he _wanted_ the job. He had no idea how to pull them together. The lab had lost its heart. All he really wanted to do was take a week off and chase his former boss. Still, he didn't want to end up working for someone else… so he needed to make an effort.

Though he was still wounded by Horatio's actions, his worries had been eased a little by talking to the rental agency. At first, he let them think he was a potential client, and was greeted by an eager young lady. He learnt that the lease was an initial six months…

"The owner said he'd let us know if he wanted that extended."

"Did he say where he was going?"

The girl frowned at the inappropriate question.

Eric sighed and pulled out his badge. "Sorry, I'm not looking to rent. I'm trying to trace the owner."

"Is something wrong?" She sounded alarmed, no doubt seeing her commission disappearing.

"Nothing, no. Nothing that affects letting the place. It's all legal - don't look so worried. Did he say anything?"

"Just that he was going travelling."

"What about sending him the money – the rent?"

"Straight into a bank account. I can't give you details. It's confidential."

"I know. No need." And that was all he found out.

The next day, Eric received a postcard. His heart leapt at the distinctive writing, and he chuckled at the picture of Mickey Mouse. The postmark was from an unremarkable town in Central Florida, but the words didn't help him much:

_I'm sorry I let you down – let all of you down. Travelling for a while to clear my head. Be in touch. Take care. H_

So he was alive. On the road. For six months…

Eric made several calls to Horatio's cell, but never got an answer. After a few days, he got a message that the service had been terminated. A couple of emails came back 'undelivered'. The message was loud and clear: Horatio did not want to be contacted. Eric could do no more, for now. And, if he wanted Horatio's job, he knew he now needed to concentrate on getting it.

* * *

He called together Calleigh, Ryan, Natalia and Walter, and thought how sadly subdued the original team seemed. As a courtesy, he invited Tom Loman and Frank Tripp too, and told them what he could about Horatio's departure, and subsequent behaviour.

"So there's no way to get in touch with him," Eric concluded, "which is obviously what he wants."

"That's…" Ryan hesitated. "That's not like H."

"Neither was the way he acted that day. I think we have to assume that things got too much for him."

"He'll come back though, right?" Ryan said eagerly.

"I don't know." Eric sighed. "I really don't. I thought I knew him as well as I've known anyone, yet he took me completely by surprise. Not so much that his temper got the better of him. Not even that he resigned. But that he'd decide to go completely off the radar." _And that he didn't tell me._

There was a long silence. With an effort, Eric smiled. "But that's not why I called you here. I'm sure we all feel the same, but we can't just sit around and mope about Horatio. We've got a lot of work and we need to get on with it. I'm acting boss for at least a week or two, so I'm going to see if we can get a couple more bodies to help clear the backlog. Okay?"

"You applying for the job, Delko?" Frank Tripp spoke up.

"I am, for my sins. But it's open to other applicants…" He shrugged. "So who knows? Why don't you apply, Frank?"

The detective chuckled. "Far too old, pal. I'm looking forward to retirement, not taking on a bunch of geeks like you."

Eric watched them wander back to work, looking totally dispirited. At last, only Calleigh remained.

"You're really missing him, aren't you?" she said quietly.

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"I think he's been desperately unkind to you. It's so unlike him."

"I'm sure he didn't mean to be unkind. I imagine he… I don't know… simply can't face anyone for now."

"You don't think he'll…" She hesitated. "…harm himself?"

"You mean kill himself? No, I don't. First, I think he'd see it as cowardly, and that's one thing he isn't. Second, I don't think he'd have been so careful to cover his tracks."

Calleigh nodded thoughtfully.

"I don't know what to do, Cal. I can't be him."

"No, you can be you, Eric. Don't sell yourself short. You know how to run this place."

"In theory. But I can't inspire people. I can't cover everyone's back, like he does… did."

"Eric," She put her hand on his arm, "you can't immediately become Horatio. You shouldn't even try. You're a good man. Don't doubt yourself. Now, how can I help you?"

"Just keep giving me these little pep talks."

"I can do that. Would you like me to work full-time for a week or so?"

"Can you do that? What about the kids?"

"I might be able to work something out. No promises…"

Eric went to the Chief to ask for extra help. "I know it sounds like failure… but we're behind with cases. I'm behind with admin." _And I'm probably scuppering my chances of getting the job…_

"I'm not surprised. You're understaffed anyway, and Horatio going is a big upheaval. I was going to wait until we've sorted out who's going to head up the lab, then look to recruit, but as a temporary measure…" He thought for a bit. "I'll get you a tech from the night shift, and someone to help with the filing and correspondence. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good, Chief."

"No shame in knowing when you need help, Eric. Now go and look after that team."

* * *

The Chief was as good as his word, and, rather to Eric's surprise, the lab began to run properly again. He hadn't really believed that it _could_ run without Horatio. And, deep down, he knew it wouldn't run as well. As long as things were routine… fine. But without Horatio's inventive, highly intuitive thought processes; without his superior specialised knowledge about explosives; without… But it was as it was. He was gone.

He still harbored thoughts of tracing him. In fact, when checking a suspect vehicle registration, he quickly put Horatio's tag in. But the Lexus was, apparently, standing on a dealer's forecourt, for sale. He wondered if Horatio had bought another vehicle from the same dealer. He could go and ask him… _Give it up, Eric…_ A voice in his head told him he wouldn't find him that way. After all, what could he do? Put a BOLO out? And where? Nationwide? _Ridiculous…_ All that was left were bank records… And for that he needed a warrant, which he was never going to get.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 5

Horatio lay on the bed in the hotel room and idly flicked through the TV channels. When nothing caught his attention, he switched it off, locked his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. It was the first night he'd checked in this early. The previous nights, he had stopped for something to eat, then gone on driving until he was tired enough to fall asleep easily.

In the mornings, a good breakfast, and hit the road… It saved thinking too much. He was tired of thinking. All he really wanted to do was vanish. So far, he had hardly noticed his surroundings. He felt as if he somehow had a barrier between himself and everyone else. He talked to no one, apart from booking rooms and ordering food. Anyone attempting conversation was met with a polite but definite brush-off. He used mid-priced hotels – not five star, but not cheap motels either. Somewhere with a comfortable bed, a hot shower, acceptable food – that was all he really asked. And, since he wasn't on a main tourist route, he had no difficulty finding vacancies.

But tonight he wasn't that tired, and his usually active brain was waking up from whatever stupor it had been in. He began to take stock. He knew he was running away. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened to him. When he'd said to Eric that he'd 'lost it', it was more than just an easy phrase. He'd lost something of himself. He couldn't really name it, but it was to do with his ability to relate to other people, his humanity. He knew his team viewed him as invincible, a 'hero' – though he hated the word – and he couldn't be a hero for them any longer. He'd lost his temper. Not for the first time, but this time he'd killed and mutilated, which, to his mind, made him just about as bad as the trash he destroyed. There was no way to carry on pretending to be someone he patently wasn't.

But he'd been logical about his escape. Storing his property, putting the apartment up for rent, changing cars… He was driving a big Jeep SUV. It was comfortable, more so than the old-fashioned Hummers he was used to; it was powerful and only moderately thirsty; most importantly, with its seats folded down, its capacious interior held a lot of stuff. Mostly clothes – since he didn't know where he was going. A few books, although when he was anywhere with Wi-Fi, he added books to his Kindle. He much preferred 'real' books, but it was a matter of weight and space…

He really didn't know where he was going, but he had already realised you couldn't just 'drive'. You had to have some sort of plan, a vague destination, even if you deviated from it. He pulled his laptop over, balanced it on his stomach, and called up a map. He knew he didn't want to head north. Despite being born in New York, he hated cold. He planned a sort of route across the southern states, making ultimately for California.

So far, he hadn't missed the lab in the slightest, which told him there was something wrong with his thought processes. Normally, he was fidgety after only a day or two away. Now he felt cocooned, almost serene.

_Well, you're not a cop any more. It's nothing to do with you now…_

He argued with himself.

_But they're your friends._

_Don't have friends. Don't want friends._

_What about Eric?_

What about Eric, indeed… Horatio knew he ought to feel guilty. He knew how much his actions would have hurt his brother-in-law. And yet… and yet, he knew he'd been incapable of facing him, or trying to explain. For a start, Eric would have tried to talk him out of it, and he didn't want to be argued with. There would have been lost tempers… And his own temper was obviously suspect… He had heard Eric at the hospital, prepared to make up a story, to lie and risk his own job, to 'save' him. That was why he had taped everything, giving his co-worker no room to make that sacrifice. So, he couldn't face Eric. He just had to leave.

He had sent him a postcard. He wasn't sure why. Just to let him know… what exactly? That he was still alive? Hadn't 'thrown himself off the balcony'? Why did he care?

He recognised that he ought to care a lot, but he still felt detached from everything in his former life. With a sigh, he turned his attention to his road trip. He needed to slow down. Pick out a few places to pause, and look around. He was conscious that his back was getting stiff from the amount of driving he was doing, and that his butt was sore. He smiled to himself, as he recalled a long-distance truck driver telling him once that hemorrhoids were an accepted side-effect of spending weeks in a driving seat, however comfortable. Well, not for him. And, if he reached California in just a week or so, what then? He reopened the laptop.

He picked out a stop in Hot Springs, a relatively short drive away, pulled up a list of hotels, and started calling, finally finding one with a lakeside view that took his fancy. He booked three nights; time to wind down a little, sort out the car and his laundry; get a bit of exercise – he was already conscious that giving up his daily run and his fairly active lifestyle was playing havoc with his fitness. Well, not havoc, not yet… but it would. And he'd turn tourist… If he discovered he hated being a tourist, he wasn't sure what he would do. For the first time, he acknowledged that he hadn't really thought out his 'escape'. He couldn't _keep_ travelling, but now he wasn't sure how to stop.

He had a rather romantic hope that he'd come upon somewhere he wanted to be, where he could stay, and get the peace his mind seemed to be craving. A peace that was so far eluding him. Well, maybe California. He'd get that far, then consider his options. For now, he was hungry. He got off the bed and headed out for something to eat.

He had got used to eating alone. Sometimes he read a book or newspaper, but more often, he just studied his fellow man. He had a knack, honed over many years of police work, of putting on a mask, blue eyes ice-cold, expression neutral, but at the same time forbidding. People tended not to approach him. It suited him at the moment.

_So, tomorrow, Hot Springs, Arkansas, beloved of Al Capone._ Or so he'd read. He wondered whether a hot tub and a massage would ease his increasingly painful back. He hated getting old. _Should have done this years ago._ Instead, he had given all his best years to preserving law and order, first in New York, then in Miami. And what had it brought him? He wished he could say satisfaction, but the truth was it was mostly disillusionment and heartache. He got up from the table and walked slowly back to his hotel.

Alone, but not lonely. Not yet.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 6

It would be a long drive. He wasn't sure he ought to attempt it one go. Hot Springs to New Orleans was nearly five hundred miles, and little of it on an interstate. In his youth, he wouldn't have hesitated, but he was conscious of the passing years. Still, Hot Springs had been a good choice and he was feeling fit and rested. He decided to head out early and see how it went.

He had never been to the famous southern city. He had intended to, twice. Once, when he was working in Pensacola, only he hadn't gotten round to it. Then again, a few years ago, but Katrina had intervened, and he had no desire to see a city brought to its knees. But now seemed as good a time as any. He was as near as he was likely to get. He was, in truth, a little apprehensive about it. It was always billed as a party city; big on music, and food; the residents welcoming, laid-back and friendly. He wasn't at all sure he was in the mood. Too much bonhomie might put his back up. Still, it was only five hundred miles away, and he had nothing better to do…

* * *

It wasn't a hard drive, just long. Part way through, he realised he would reach the city that evening, so he pulled over and called the hotels he'd short-listed. He was lucky. His second choice had a vacancy.

"It's a front room, Sir… Not as quiet as the courtyard ones… I have to warn you."

"Is it very noisy?"

"Well… New Orleans doesn't really sleep til 'bout five in the morning…"

He sighed. "Okay. You're being very honest. I'll take it, but if anything else comes up…"

He put the hotel into the Jeep's GPS. Sounded like he wasn't going to sleep well either. He drove on. He was fortified by a good breakfast, but he didn't stop again, except for fuel. For the last forty or so miles, he found himself driving through heavy rain, while the skies got darker, with flashes of lightning, and thunder in the distance. His mood was heading rapidly downhill. The trip seemed to have all the makings of a bad idea. He'd booked five nights, but could see himself cutting it short.

It was nearly eight in the evening when he reached his destination. The rain had stopped but as he got stiffly out of the car, the humidity hit him. After the hours in air-conditioning, it was stifling. He stretched, rolling his stiff neck and shoulders, and looked up at the hotel. It looked like a big private dwelling, from years past; three-storied, with black, wrought-iron balconies at each window, pots of flowers in their corners. It was so ridiculously attractive, it didn't look real. More like a film set. A trace of a smile touched his face. Gradually, his other senses kicked in. Sounds… music, happy voices… Then the smells… cooking, food… He realised he was hungry.

He followed signs to a parking lot, pulled a bag out of the car, locked up, and made his way into the hotel. The receptionist, a young black woman, had such a warm smile that it lifted his fairly sour mood.

"Mr Caine?"

"How did you know?"

"Ah… magic." She tapped the side of her nose. "You said you'd be late. Good drive?"

"Long."

"Well, I've got good news… I've managed to move you to a courtyard room. Room 209." She checked his documents as he signed in and handed him the key. "Are you fixin' to eat, Mr Caine?"

"Is there room service? I'm starving."

"What would you like?" She didn't offer a menu. Her tone suggested 'just name it'.

He raised his eyebrows. "Just beer and a sandwich or something." He knew he'd have to wash up and change before he could go to a restaurant, and he was too tired.

"Leave it to me. You like shrimp? Crab?"

He nodded. "I like most things."

"You got it."

The room wasn't big, but it was comfortably furnished. And it had a balcony… if these little iron contraptions were called balconies here. It was just wide enough to stand on. He switched the air-conditioning off and opened the door-cum-window. The warm humid air rushed in. This side of the hotel was quiet. In the diminishing light, he saw a courtyard, hotel rooms on three sides, a big group of banana plants in the middle. It smelled of warm wet earth, of the river a few blocks away, of the recent rain, of tropical flowering plants. All intoxicatingly fertile. Fecund… the word came to him out of nowhere. He leant on the railing and drew in a deep breath, still easing the tension out of his body.

There was a knock at the door, and he called, "Come in," without moving.

The receptionist came in. "A po' boy and a Bud…"

This time his smile was full on. The muscles of his face seemed to tell him it had been a while since he'd done that. "'Po' boy'?"

"You'd call it a sub, I guess."

He unwrapped the foot-long loaf… he'd call it a baguette. It was warm and exuded delicious fishy smells.

"Thank you. It looks pretty good. And smells wonderful."

"I got it from the place next door. Room service didn't seem… suitable, for a hungry man."

He laughed. "Then I owe you."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Don't spread it around – I'll lose my job. Settle up before you go. I'm Simone – here every night from six."

"Thank you, Simone. I'm Horatio."

"Wow, that's some name, Mister. Enjoy your dinner…" And she went out.

He chuckled, shaking his head, then pulled a chair over to the open window and began to eat.

* * *

He loved New Orleans. He gave himself a sort of routine. A short run, early in the morning. At that time, the streets were quiet. He encountered street sweepers and others, starting work early, and a few party-goers, heading home late. He soon gathered that running wasn't a common pastime here – he got odd looks or good-natured cat-calls from the few who were around. Then he'd shower and go out for breakfast at one of the many cafés in the area. The hotel provided a free 'continental' breakfast, but he liked something more substantial, so he could skip lunch. Then he'd play tourist – sight-seeing, a trip on a Mississippi river-boat… Despite the exercise, he was putting on weight – his pants were tighter at the waist than he liked – but the food was just so good… He told himself he could always make an effort to shed it in California, where everyone exercised. He knew the break was what he needed. He had rarely felt so relaxed. What he'd left behind ceased to prey on him.

It was the last night of his break, and he was sitting in a bar, debating whether to extend his time here, or move on.

"Can't see a handsome man like you sitting alone…" It was a deep husky voice.

"You better join me then."

She was attractive, with caramel colored skin, almost the same color hair, strangely slanted amber eyes. The amount of make-up, and her clothes, told him she was probably a working girl, but he was feeling relaxed and mellow, and didn't mind. He supposed she was Creole, although the city was such a melting pot, he wasn't sure.

"You want something to drink?"

"Champagne?"

He gave a short laugh. "Oh no. I'll buy you a beer."

She pulled a face. "Meanie."

He signalled to the waiter, who came over. "Now, Rosie, you know the boss don't like you coming in here."

Horatio looked up. "She's just having a drink with me. Is that a problem?"

"Well, boss ain't here… One drink, okay?"

She didn't seem at all disconcerted. "He's a mean ol' boy, the boss…"

"Doesn't want you doing business in here, eh?"

She tried to look indignant, but failed, and gave a throaty laugh instead. "Sure ain't no flies on you, man." She took a sip of beer. "Where you from? Miami?"

"You've got a good ear."

"Honey, I got a good _everything_."

"I've no doubt. What's your name? Rose?"

"Rosaline. You?"

"Horatio. Go on, say it, it's a helluva name, I know."

He was easy with the sexy banter, but he had never paid for sex, and he wasn't going to start now. She seemed to realise that. She finished her beer and stood up, with a wave to the waiter. "Y'all have a good evenin' now."

"And you. Take care, Rosaline."

He finished his own drink then wandered back to his hotel. He put the coffee maker on then turned his thoughts to something he had been putting off – writing a letter.

_Dear Eric – I feel I should try to explain things to you…_

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 7

"Congratulations, Mr Delko." Chief Martinez shook his hand vigorously.

"I've got the job?" Eric was actually surprised. He didn't think he'd done particularly well at the interviews. He was distracted and upset by Horatio's departure, and didn't think he'd covered that very successfully.

"The lab's all yours. Let's go and sit down, and have a chat…"

They sat in the Chief's office while Eric tried to digest the news.

"Thank you, Chief. I… wow, I don't know what to say…"

"Just do a good job for us, Eric. It was a committee decision, but we were definitely influenced by a glowing testimonial from Horatio."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. He praised your grip of organising a crime scene, and of the forensics. He also… sounded a few words of caution… He said you've never controlled a departmental budget, for example."

"He's right. I haven't."

"He also suggested you'd need help with the admin."

Eric chuckled. "And that's 'glowing'?"

"There was more. Good things." He didn't elaborate. "The point is, the post has provision for an administrative assistant. It has had for two or three years, but Horatio always refused it. I don't expect you to copy him. So, I want you to hire two new techs, which will bring you up to the proper staffing levels, and one admin person. If you want guidance on where to advertise and so on, talk to _my_ admin lady, Janine. Any problems, come to me. I don't expect you to know it all at first."

Eric stood up to leave.

"One small piece of advice," Martinez added. "I know what you thought of him, but don't copy Horatio _too_ much."

"In what way?"

"Don't be offended. Horatio sometimes made his own rules, but when you've done the job as long as he did, and as well as he did… maybe you're entitled to. Have you heard from him, by the way?"

"Postcard – he's 'travelling'."

Martinez nodded. "How do you get on with Frank Tripp?"

Eric smiled wryly. "We've had our differences."

"Try to use his expertise. He's a wise old bird. And remember it's a forensics lab, not the strong arm of MDPD." He regarded the younger man's face for a moment. "You think I'm criticising Horatio… He did get perilously close to the line several times, before he finally crossed it. I think… well, I don't want you to go the same way."

Eric nodded. "Horatio… was… I don't know. He changed over the last year or so. He'd seen too much."

"Horatio was an exceptional man. Don't think I don't know that. But I think we – the department – may well have pushed him too far. He never took time for himself, and we didn't force him to." He paused, deep in thought, then smiled sadly. "And since he never complained…"

"He wouldn't."

"I know. Look, I admired Horatio – I don't want you to think otherwise. But I'd like you to do things a bit differently, at least for now. Go on – and good luck."

* * *

Eric called the team together, announced his news, and received their congratulations. "And I've been told to hire two more techs, so we'll be up to numbers again."

He retired to Horatio's office. His office… It didn't feel real. He felt like a fraud, a usurper. He was conscious he was going to have to set barriers, of some sort, between himself and the others. They couldn't really be a gang of friends, if he had to give the orders. He doubted he had Horatio's natural authority. When Horatio had said 'do it', you did. He thought Calleigh had carried off the deputy role far better, but since she had decided to work part-time, she clearly hadn't been eligible anymore. Had she been, he thought, she'd have been sitting here now. But he had rarely felt more inadequate or more alone. He knew Horatio had skills he could only dream of.

* * *

He was put to the test that same day, when he took a call from Frank Tripp. "We got a body, looks like a shooting – you wanna come?"

"Yes, sure." He took the address and headed downstairs, collecting Walter on the way.

He met Frank coming out of the house where the crime had taken place. The detective held his hand out. "I hear congratulations are in order, Delko."

He wondered if he'd ever be called 'Eric'. "Thank you. What have we got here?"

"Patrol answered a domestic. Found a dead lady in the house."

"No one else around?"

"Apparently not."

"Who called it in?"

"Lady next door. I'm just going to talk to her. I'll leave you two with the crime scene." He went to walk away, then turned back. "Oh, I haven't called the ME yet."

"I'll do it," Eric said.

He made the call, then followed Walter into the house. A blond-haired woman, probably in her thirties, lay on the floor, a patch of blood over the area of her heart. There was evidence of a fight of some sort – overturned coffee table, broken ornaments – but the actual murder was perversely tidy. It looked like a single shot.

"What do you want me on, boss?" Walter asked.

'_Boss'…_ "Start on the room. I'll look at the body, before Tom gets here."

He had barely started, before Frank ran back in. "We got a problem. There's a kid, due home any minute."

"Can we call the school?"

"Too late. Bus'll be comin' round the corner in about five minutes."

Eric immediately took stock. "Can the lady next door take the kid in?"

"She refused." Frank looked disgusted. "Didn't like the neighbors. Doesn't like kids. She thinks she knows everything that happens in the street, and likes to stir things up. Well, that's the impression. Nasty piece of work…"

"Okay. I'd better meet the bus." Eric stood up and positioned himself at the window. "Girl or boy?"

"What? Oh, boy… Eight years old. Name's John. John Wilson."

Eric was nervous. He dreaded breaking that sort of news, especially to a child. _Horatio, where are you when I need you?_

Frank continued. "Mrs Not-My-Problem says she heard shouting, then a shot, then the husband drove out. She's got no clue about the car, except it's white."

"There might be papers here – Walter, look for car details, will you? Oh hell, here comes the bus."

"Sure you want to do this?"

"No, Frank, I don't! But I've got to, haven't I?" He walked out towards the road.

The yellow bus pulled up, letting off just two children. Eric approached the only boy.

"Are you John? John Wilson?"

"Yes. Who're you?" He looked suspicious and glanced over at his own house, surrounded as it was by police tape. "You a cop?"

"Sort of. CSI. Do you know what that is?"

" 'course. I watch telly." He frowned suddenly, interest changing to concern. "Where's Mom?"

Eric drew a deep breath. "Your Mom's had an accident." _Coward, Eric…_

"I want to go in!"

The boy nearly slipped past him, and Eric was forced to grab his arm. "No, not at the moment. John, John…" He changed his grip to an awkward arm round the shoulders. "Come and sit in my car."

Reluctantly, the boy allowed himself to be ushered into the Hummer, interest in the vehicle again fighting with his desire to see his mother. "It's big. Does it have a siren?"

"Yes, it does. You like cars, John?"

The boy nodded.

"What car does your Dad drive?"

"A Chevrolet Sonic. Did my Dad hurt my Mom?"

"We don't know yet, John. Do you think he might have done?"

"They fight. A lot."

"Tell me more about the car. What color is it?"

"White. Don't you want to know its regi… registration?" He stumbled slightly over the word.

"You know it?"

"If I think _really_ hard…"

_Come on, kid…_ Eric looked encouragingly as John screwed up his face. He came out with a plausible registration. "I think…"

"Well done, John. We'll see if we can find your Dad." Reluctant to leave the child, he pulled out his cell and called Walter. "Come out here a minute…"

With Walter dispatched to give the vehicle details to Frank, Eric turned back to the boy. _How did you do this, Horatio? Interrogate kids? _He felt awkward. He had little experience of children, and was conscious he hadn't yet imparted the bad news that John Wilson had to hear. When kids were involved in cases, in the past, it had always fallen to Horatio to interview them. He was even nicknamed, behind his back, the child-whisperer.

When Walter returned, he grabbed him. "Walter, this is John. John, Walter. Will you stay with him for a few minutes?"

Walter and Eric changed places. Out of earshot now, Eric called Calleigh. "Need your help, Cal…"

"Yes, boss?"

_Not you too… _He explained the circumstances. "So if you could come and collect him. And perhaps Child Services could meet you at the lab."

"Okay. No problem."

"Oh, and Calleigh… I… er… haven't told him his Mom's dead. Only that she's had an accident." He noted the ME's van approaching. "Oh, shit!"

"What?"

"Tom's here."

"Just ask him not to bring the body out yet. I'll be as quick as I can."

"Hell, I'm no child-whisperer, Cal. I'm not even sure I should be talking to him without someone else present."

"Eric, he's a child, just make him feel comfortable. I can do something formal with Child Services there. And I'm sure you're doing just fine."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 8

Horatio was part way across the Arizona desert when it hit him. He was mildly bored with the drive, and, although it was cool enough in the vehicle, the constant glare was uncomfortable. Even dimmed by sunglasses, it was giving him a slight headache. The radio was playing quietly. He wasn't even listening really, but a song came on that somehow broke through his drifting thoughts and touched the melancholy within. 'Con Te Partirò'… He could resist its tug on his senses while it was sung in Italian, but when it switched to English – 'Time to Say Goodbye' – he felt tears in his eyes. He blinked them away. _Sentimental fool! _But the poignant tune and lyrics brought more tears. Tears which, he acknowledged, hadn't been too far from the surface for a day or two. He pulled off the road and gave in to it.

He was feeling low anyway. His road trip had entered a phase of relentless driving again – his fault, but his mood had changed a lot in recent days. Now he was hit with the realisation that his 'goodbye' was probably permanent. He wasn't just on holiday. He wasn't going to 'get his head together', turn round and head home. He leant back against the headrest and closed his eyes, letting tears run down his face. Without meaning to, he dozed. Only for about ten minutes, but he had a short vivid dream, of the car going backwards, fast, and he couldn't find the brake. He awoke with a start, his heart pounding, sweat running down his body. And with an increasing headache.

Rummaging in the glove box, for Tylenol, he felt the small comforting bulk of his Beretta, his trusty back-up weapon for so many years. He had brought it with him, not stopping to wonder whether carrying it would be illegal in some states. So far, he hadn't even taken it out of the glove box. _Ought to at least oil it…_ He had some gun oil somewhere; he thought that maybe he'd do it next time he stopped. He pushed it back, found the tablets and swallowed a couple. He switched the radio off, and pulled back onto the highway.

The bright sunlight was making him miserable, despite sunglasses and the peak of a baseball cap pulled low. The headache stayed, and he felt vaguely sick. The constant drone of big tires and big engine didn't help. He resolved to stop at the first accommodation he came across.

It was a shabby motel, set amid a small row of shops. Not his sort of place, but it would have to do. Anywhere with a bed… He checked in.

"One night?" The overweight woman didn't even look up.

"Likely." His tone was less than polite, but it clearly made no difference to her.

"You need to tell me before nine-thirty tomorrow."

"Okay." He took the key, as she turned a page in her magazine.

The room was worn and smelled of smoke. It wasn't even air-conditioned. There was a floor fan, which he switched on. It rattled. The curtains were thin, the mattress and pillows the same, and hard. He lay down anyway and closed his eyes. His head was throbbing. If he hadn't felt rough, he'd have got up and driven on. He suddenly thought about Miami, specifically his condo, with its view of the ocean; its luxurious king-size bed – one of his few indulgences; the tall windows with their fine drapes… shifting gently in the breeze… He could almost smell the sea. He opened his eyes and stared at the stained ceiling. _What are you doing here, man? _He felt hopeless and teary. He wondered who was in the condo now. Should he go back? But he'd let it for six months, hadn't he? And he knew it had a tenant, since rental money had appeared in his bank account. _So you're stuck, you fool…_ At the back of his mind, he knew how illogical he was being. Only a week earlier he'd been enjoying his life as a tourist.

He slept badly, woken by the heat; by some noisy sex going on next door; again by a convoy of blue lights and loud sirens on the road outside; and more than once by his own despondent thoughts. He got up at seven, and sought some fresh air. A small drugstore was open nearby. He went in, bought a flu remedy – not that he thought he had flu, but he felt well below par, and it might help – a bar of chocolate and a packet of peanut cookies. An unhealthy breakfast, but, he thought, enough to keep him going. He picked up a postcard, with a picture of a cactus… He'd tried to write Eric a letter… three times… but they had all ended up in the trash. How, after all, could he explain something he didn't really understand himself? Still, he could at least let his brother-in-law know he was still around. _Why, Horatio? Just to make yourself feel better? Shouldn't you just leave him alone now? _He wondered if they'd given Eric his old job.

The coffee maker seemed to be the newest item in the motel room. At least, it worked well. An hour or so later, fortified by coffee, a single cookie, and a pharmaceutical boost, he checked out and hit the road.

* * *

After that, he lost track of the days. He made no plans. He paid little attention to his surroundings. He stopped when he was too tired to drive. On the one occasion he failed to find a hotel, he slept in the back of the Jeep. He wasn't sure if the malaise he was feeling was mental or physical, but he was just about at his lowest ebb as he crossed the state line into California. He knew he was in danger of wrecking the vehicle, or his health, or both. But he'd promised himself he'd drive to California, and now he had. He knew he had to stop what he was doing. One way or another.

He reached Los Angeles. He was weary, and decided to stay a few days and take stock. He picked a modest hotel in one of the beach resorts on the outskirts of the city, consigned his overworked vehicle to the parking garage – at least for a day or two – and settled in.

It was early evening, still light, though a little cooler, when he stepped out of the hotel and walked the hundred yards or so to the beach. He leant on the railing and watched the Pacific Ocean, watched small waves breaking on the white sand. A group of youngsters played volley ball; a woman, dressed in what seemed to be de rigueur for older ladies here – eye-wateringly bright sweats and a ball cap - jogged with a small dog, along the sidewalk where he was standing. She smiled and said 'hi there, lovely evening' and he returned the smile. He looked back at the sea, both ocean and sky an amazingly deep blue; pelicans, heads tucked down, looking like airborne pillows, flew low over the water; on a buoy, he saw, and heard, a group of sea lions taking the evening air, squabbling over the limited space. He walked down some steps to beach level and followed the cycleway the half-mile to the pier. There, as the sun went down, he ate supper.

His legs ached from lack of exercise, and he was weary beyond measure, but surprisingly he felt a lot better. He listened to the sounds of the sea, gurgling beneath the wooden pier. He was beginning to realise that being near water soothed his battered soul. He made his way slowly back to the hotel, hung the 'Do Not Disturb' sign and slept for twelve hours straight.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 9

Eric was relieved that his first case as boss was a cut-and-dried one. The husband of the murdered woman was picked up quickly, and, under Frank's questioning, soon confessed. Now it was up to the courts… Eric had watched a mournful small boy, orphaned to all intents and purposes, leave the building with a representative of Child Services. For that reason, he didn't feel as good about the case as he might have done, but he did feel relieved that it was an easy one. And it was over. _One down… How many hundreds to go?_

He attended the mother's funeral. He was conscious that he was copying Horatio, but he wanted to see how young John was doing. The boy looked miserable and bewildered, and Eric's heart went out to him. Himself, he'd always had family around him. He tried to imagine being amongst strangers at eight years old. Eric hung back until the graveside service was over, then moved closer. He was surprised to see the boy's sad face light up at the sight of a familiar face. He walked over.

"How's it going, John?"

"All right, s'pose. Have you come in your big car?"

Eric chuckled. "Yes, I have."

"Can I see it?"

"Maybe." He looked questioningly at the woman holding John's hand.

"I'm the aunt," she introduced herself. Actually he could see a resemblance between her and the woman they had just buried. "John's with me now. We're all right, aren't we, John?"

The boy nodded wordlessly. Eric smiled sympathetically. _Not yet, but you probably will be…_

The blond woman added, "Car mad, this one. You want to go see the police car?"

Eric took him away from the graveside and gave him a guided tour of the gizmos and gimmicks on the Hummer. "There, now you know more about Crime Scene vehicles than any of your friends."

"Will you put the siren on?"

"I can't, not here."

"I'd like to be a cop…"

"No reason you shouldn't," Eric said seriously.

They talked for a while, John proving to be intelligent and surprisingly mature. _You'll need to be, John…_ For a funeral, it turned out to be an oddly pleasant experience. Eric thought he was beginning to understand why his former boss always went back to the victims.

* * *

At the lab, he found Calleigh's support invaluable. When he interviewed potential employees, she joined him. She seemed able to ask searching and pertinent questions, whereas he acted more on gut instinct. Together, they were a good team, but then, they always had been.

After one such interview, Eric said of the departing candidate, "Well, I didn't like him!"

Calleigh smiled, but said, "Why not? He's got good qualifications."

"I know, but… Well, he's older than me. Can you see him fitting in here? Can you imagine what Walter and Ryan would do to him?"

Calleigh frequently played devil's advocate, but this time she laughed. "Yes, I can, unfortunately. Not so much his age…"

"You've got to wonder why he's still looking at this level of job." He scanned the application form. "And he's had too many jobs. Four, in six years…"

"I'm not arguing. He's not for us. Cross him off. Poor guy."

"Poor guy? This is the best crime lab in Florida – probably. Can't have any Tom, Dick or Harry… It _is_ the best, isn't it? I mean, it was, with Horatio…"

"It still is, Eric." She put her hand on his arm. "And least, it can be."

"Nothing feels right… The team…"

"They're still upset about what happened, they're overworked, but…"

He interrupted. "They're waiting for me to pull a rabbit out of the hat? I can't do it, Calleigh. Horatio…"

"You've got to stop measuring yourself against him, you know."

"Why?" He laughed harshly. "Because I'll always come up short?"

"No, that's not what I mean at all. Would he have recommended you to take over his precious lab, if he didn't think you could do it?"

"It wasn't that precious."

"You're angry with him?"

"I suppose I am. Just to go, like that… It was so unfair."

"He was burnt out, Eric."

He sighed. "I know that. I just wish I'd realised sooner. I let him burn himself out. I treated him as if he was invincible. He was always there, if any of us needed… I don't know… a shoulder to lean on. I just never considered he might have needed it too. My invincible brother-in-law…"

"Horatio wouldn't be helped," Calleigh said gently. "Even if we'd known how bad it was, would he have let us do anything?" She answered her own question. "I don't think so. Look, you loved him, I loved him, but he always was a law unto himself."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, as Eric made notes on the last application form.

He sat back. "I had another postcard from him."

"Where from? Did he say anything?"

"Somewhere in Arizona – couldn't decipher the postmark. He said, 'still trucking'."

"That's all?"

He nodded sadly. "I wonder how long that'll go on – postcards every couple of months?"

"Don't be angry with him."

"I'm not, really. I'd just like to talk to him." He sighed. "Anyway, we've got one more interview… Let's get that done, then… are you free to get something to eat?"

"Eric Delko! Are you asking me out?"

"Not like a date. Unless you want it to be."

"Sorry, Eric… You're my dear friend, but we've moved on from… well, romantic stuff. Haven't we?"

He shrugged. "I know that's what you want."

"I do." She turned her dazzling smile on him. "But I'd like something to eat. And a chance to talk away from this place."

He returned her smile. "You're on. What about your kids?"

"Austin's at tennis practice. Patty's at dance class. So I'm free for an hour or so." She touched his face gently. "I'll even let you talk about Horatio."

"Oh Cal, am I that bad?"

"No. I know what he meant to you. I know what a shock you've had."

"Calleigh… one thing… Can we stop talking about him in the past tense? He may have fallen to pieces, but he's still around. As far as we know."

"I know. I'm sorry, it's a bad habit. Come on, let's see this last candidate, then we can talk."

Their last interviewee was a welcome surprise. Eric had thought he was on the young side, not long out of college, but he proved to be bright, confident and possessed of a quick wit. More than he was revealing in a job interview, probably. Eric imagined he'd easily hold his own with the others. It was never listed as a requirement, but 'sense of humor' was definitely desirable. Their candidate immediately moved to the top of their short 'possibles' list.

* * *

They ate, more or less in silence, at a nearby diner.

"Good to be out?" Eric chuckled, admiring his co-worker's appetite.

"It is." Calleigh wiped her lips on a paper napkin. "I adore those kids, but feeding them is… not exciting."

"And Don's Diner is? If I'd known you wanted excitement…"

"Wrong word, but they were obviously allowed to eat what they wanted, when they wanted. Their tastes are pretty limited. I'm trying to educate their palates, and to get them to eat at a table, with me, but it leads to endless arguments. Patty's okay, but Austin's a handful, with awful table manners."

"They're just kids. Lots of kids are fussy."

"I know, but it's lovely just to _relax_ over a meal." She leant over and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, boss. That was delicious." Her face straightened. "You won't repeat that – about Austin?"

Eric laughed. "Who to? You mean the adoption people? Of course I won't. And if I can help at all…"

"I'll ask you. Actually, Austin might benefit from some male company now and again."

"Whatever you want. I mean it."

"You're a good man, Eric."

He smiled, a little sadly. They could have been so much more…

They were silent for a while, a silence that Calleigh broke. "Do you think he'll come back?"

There was no need to ask 'who'. "I don't know. I hope so, but… I don't know."

"What's with the postcards, do you think? To let you know he's okay?" Calleigh asked.

"I suppose so. And if they stop, I'll think the worst."

"If he had wanted to harm himself, he'd have done it."

"You sound very sure."

"That's just not Horatio."

"Calleigh, nothing about this is 'Horatio'. The trouble is, there's nothing I can do! I've no idea what's going on with him, I've no idea where he is, or what he means to do. I've no idea what his mental state is. I'm just afraid the cards will stop coming, and he'll be gone forever."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 10

Horatio felt so much better the next day, so 'normal', that he wondered what had been going on with him the previous week. He stepped into the bathroom, took a long hot shower, shaved off two days' growth of stubble, and stood in front of the mirror. Not admiring himself – he _was_ self-aware, had even been accused of vanity – but more to see how much of what he was feeling actually showed on the surface. His many years as a cop had given him the ability to appear fine, in control, unmoved, whatever mayhem was going on around him. The outer shell was rarely breached, and never in public.

But now he wasn't a cop. He wasn't in public. He wasn't anything. Well, stark naked in a hotel room, miles from home. If he still had a home… He was conscious that his grip on normality was fragile and that he could sink back into despair so very easily.

The man that looked back from the mirror was worn, almost gaunt. Any weight he'd put on, while enjoying the Southern hospitality of New Orleans, he'd quickly lost in his somewhat frantic westward dash. His habitual slouch seemed to have deepened to a stoop. He looked, he thought, older than his fifty-nine years. With an effort, he straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. He'd always had a slight stoop, not only from lazy posture, but because he'd been born that way, with a very slight abnormality of the spine. Too minor to be noticed when he was young, and certainly nothing his mother had thought to do anything about, apart from frequent exhortations to 'stand up straight'. And nothing that had ever impacted on the physical requirements of being a serving police officer. With an effort, he could stand almost a full six foot. Without effort, he slumped and dropped an inch or two. And when he was depressed, he slumped. He made himself stand tall.

His hair was still as red as ever, if receding a little. He'd read once that redheads didn't go gray. He hadn't, yet. Not on his head, nor - glancing down with a wry smile - anywhere else. _Could be worse… _His hair was getting long, covering the back of his neck._ Might be useful – keep the sun off… _He had no need to keep his short, business-like hair style anymore. His arms and face were fairly tan, but the rest of his body was milk-white and freckled. He had once hated his freckles, but after sixty years, he was quite fond of them. The thing he hated was his propensity for sunburn, and the subsequent need to cover up. But overall, he thought he didn't look too bad. Only his eyes seemed to give him away.

_Enough…_

He put some coffee on, pulled on a robe and went onto the small balcony. He could smell the sea, and, by standing up and looking between the buildings, he could just see it. It was already hot, although the dry desert heat was less oppressive than humid Miami. He loved Miami, and was well used to its climate. He rather enjoyed its many faces, its tropical storms, its rapid changes. California? He wasn't sure yet.

He had slept late enough to miss the hotel's breakfast, so he dressed and wandered out to find some brunch. He thought the area was a good choice, for him. It was a placid mixture of residential and low-key tourism. There were plenty of inexpensive family-type eating places, but it was well away – in tone as well as distance – from the City of Angels' brash center. He knew the city a little, from previous visits, and that part of it held no charms for him. He might mosey into town for a look around, in a day or two, but for now he was content where he was. The hotel was comfortable, rather than flashy. The staff, young and mainly Hispanic, seemed friendly without being intrusive. And it wasn't that expensive.

* * *

Now that his brain had slowed from its frantic wanderings, he found himself making a 'to do' list. Only a mental one, so subject to change. And there was no hurry. _Relax, man…_ He was thinking about the sea again. Pacific or Atlantic? He smiled to himself. _Plenty of time to consider that one…_

Horatio had a problem with being idle. He realised he'd have to learn how to do nothing. He'd been busy for so long, that the shedding of obligations to do, or be, anything took some dealing with. At home – home! – he might have taken up a hobby, though he wasn't sure what. Retired Miamians played golf, but it had never appealed. Starting something as a novice appealed even less. Vanity again – he knew he liked being good at things. Anyway, he wasn't in Miami. Birdwatching? Painting? Did it matter? For now, he started, slowly, on his 'to do' list.

The back of the Jeep was a shambles; it took a couple of hours to restore order, depositing bags of laundry with the hotel, retrieving the one expensive suit he had brought with him, to hang the creases out of it, and sneaking the Beretta and a small can of gun oil back to his room. Inquiries at the front desk located the nearest Jeep dealership, and he booked the hard-working vehicle in for some cleaning and general TLC. It had served him well so far, covering thousands of miles without a murmur of complaint, and he wanted that to continue.

"Is it on a bus route?" he asked.

"Yessir, but I live near there," the desk clerk informed him. "If you come at the right time, I'll pick you up and give you a ride back here."

"Thank you. You're on." He smiled his gratitude.

He attended to his gun, wrapped it in a shirt, and hid it at the back of a drawer in the nightstand. Horatio respected mechanical objects. Automobiles, weapons… He expected them to work for him when needed, and accepted that it meant taking care of them. He had never had a gun jam on him, and didn't intend to start now – if he ever needed to fire one again. Which was a strange thought in itself. He wondered whether to add 'target practice' to his list. _Maybe, but not yet…_

* * *

Evening came quickly, and he left the room and walked down to the beach. Not as blue today. The sky, while not exactly overcast, looked sort of colorless. He remembered that Southern California was in the grip of a drought, so it seemed unlikely that it would rain… He walked down the steps, and across the sand to the water's edge. There was a slight breeze, the waves livelier. He didn't stay long, just enough to get his 'fix', then went to find dinner.

Tomorrow, he needed to tackle the least welcome part of his list. Money… He was hardly poor, but he'd been spending with abandon, mostly on hotels and gas. True, he had a reasonable pension, and income from the Miami condo. He even had a couple of investments that paid dividends, albeit modest ones. But he doubted even those would enable him to live in hotels, long-term. He really needed to do some math.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 11

Money… He simply didn't have enough of it. He knew, instinctively, that staying in hotels for an extended period was beyond his means. It irritated him. Money had always struck him, intellectually, as unimportant; a means to an end. If you had to think about it too much, then you lost sight of what life was really about. It wasn't that he was greedy. He appreciated fine things: some cars; a piece of artwork, here and there. But mostly, he appreciated freedom, and the minute you had to start doing the sums, that freedom diminished. And now he was having to do just that. His options were limited. The most obvious was to go home. Even as he thought it, he knew he wasn't ready. That day might come, but it hadn't yet. He could sell the thirsty Jeep… He _could_ drive around in a compact, although the idea held few attractions. He liked the Jeep and it was being good to him. He made a few calculations, and decided the savings didn't warrant the sacrifice. _So drive the damned thing less…_

His thoughts were heading towards staying here, in California, for a while. Find somewhere to rent. It made sense. As long as he paid less than he was receiving for the condo, the figures would work. Anyway, he rather fancied having his own place again. He was bored with eating other people's cooking. Looking after himself appealed.

He started researching rental property, and quickly became depressed. He was seeking more solitude than seemed to be on offer. And it had to be near the sea. True beachside property was out of his reach, and mostly too close to the neighbors. Visions of kids and cook-outs made him shudder. He drove north for a while, clinging to the coastline. Nothing.

Miserable that he couldn't find a solution, he returned to the hotel. It wasn't logical, but he thought he'd check out of the hotel, and drive all the way to San Francisco, looking for property on the way.

"I may be back," he told the desk clerk, as he paid his account.

Loading up the Jeep, he hit the road – again.

* * *

Horatio discovered he didn't enjoy San Francisco as much as he expected to. It wasn't his first visit, but the other times had been many years ago. At a younger age, he'd seen it as a tolerant free-wheeling sort of place, with an appealing shabbiness, and he'd liked its culture. Now, it seemed to have smartened up, and to be trying too hard. New Orleans' hedonism had been unforced and natural, born of its racial diversity, steamy climate, and laissez-faire attitude. Perhaps even its recent tragedies. San Francisco's legendary open-mindedness by contrast, seemed to him a bit in-your-face; the air heavy with the smell of weed, and no doubt other substances, gay bars on every corner, every conceivable manner of dress and undress… It wasn't that he objected – 'each to his own' summed up his current frame of mind – but it seemed everyone was acting, somehow. Nothing relaxed about it. Sort of 'look at me'. Maybe he was getting old. Maybe just bitter.

The city did, however, provide some amazing sights. Its topography meant it could hardly avoid doing so. The scenery was spectacular, the historical buildings a joy. He spent a pleasant week sightseeing, visiting galleries and museums. He went out to the Point Bonita, the stupendous views stunning him, the hiking trail making him realise how unfit he'd become. And he felt keenly that he had no one to turn to and say 'wow, look at that…' He rode a cable car. He visited Alcatraz. He resisted the urge to try smoking marihuana – it would have been a first for him, and he generally liked new experiences. _God knew, they were few enough at his age._ He was tempted with the drug several times, during pleasant evenings in a bar, as more than one San Francisco native bent his ear about its many virtues. He decided to head back, slowly, towards Los Angeles.

* * *

It didn't work out like that. On his last day, while waiting at an intersection, his Jeep was rear-ended, heavily, by a BMW driven by a spaced-looking youth. It was severe enough to fire the airbag. Horatio escaped with minor whiplash, a sprained wrist, and a burn on his face, the Jeep with a damaged rear door that would no longer close. The BMW definitely lost the fight, but its driver turned out to be both high and uninsured. The consequences – calls to his insurance company, police involvement, plus the need for repairs that kept the Jeep in the shop for nearly two weeks - and he spent longer in San Francisco than he intended. Anyway, he was too bruised to attempt a long drive straight away.

He gave the city another chance, and, while he knew he'd never leave his heart there, as the song said, the time passed easily enough. He could have hired a replacement car, but instead walked or used public transport, conscious that he was getting lazy and was much less fit than was comfortable.

He had, for the time being, stopped thinking about his past. It was dimly there, in his background consciousness, but as long as he kept 'busy', concentrating on other things, the background was where it stayed. When he saw cops on the street, he felt no kindred spirit. If he was honest with himself, he had very little feeling at all. He had to work at it, and it was as if his mind knew not to let his guard down; not to think of Miami, or Eric, or anything much. His lapse, in the middle of the Arizona desert, had taught him that much. He was more concerned about his immediate plans, of finding somewhere to settle down. It was proving elusive.

One evening, he was walking back to his hotel, via a shortcut he had discovered. The fact that it took him through a less than salubrious alleyway did not concern him, either because he was used to taking risks, or, more likely, that he no longer cared. Usually the place was deserted anyway. Just a place for the back entrances and dumpsters of nearby shops and restaurants. This evening, however, he heard voices. His eyes adjusting to the gloom, he noted two white men and a smaller black man, who all appeared to be arguing. His cop's instincts surfaced. He didn't choose it, but something honed to an edge over so many years was hard to ignore.

It was immediately obvious to him that the small man was scared, and being threatened. As he approached, however, all three adopted a nonchalant demeanor, with false laughs. He slowed slightly, trying to catch the eye of the frightened man.

"What you looking at, man?" The tone was overtly threatening.

He shrugged. "Nothing at all. Just going home."

"Keep going then."

He looked directly at the black man. "Everything okay?" _You're an idiot, Horatio… They could be armed… Guns, knives…_

One of the others answered. "Everything's fine. Now mind your own business."

"I want to hear it from him."

"It's fine, isn't it, Jamal? Tell this old guy to get lost."

"Fine…" It was an unconvincing whisper.

Being called 'old' stung. Horatio walked on a few steps, to give himself some space. He hadn't seen any weapons, but suspected they were the sort who would carry knives.

He turned back. "Let him go."

"Or what, dude?"

_What indeed? _Horatio was, in fact, armed. He shouldn't have been, but his Beretta was nestled at his ankle. As he'd seen it, he'd had no real alternative. With the car in the shop, and a hotel room without a safe, the simplest thing had been to wear it. Vague thoughts about legality and jurisdiction, neither of which was on his side, flitted through his mind.

He bent as if to adjust his shoe and stood up with the gun in his hand. Three sets of hands shot into the air, confirming that the men had no weapons of their own. Or none that they were prepared to use.

"Now let him go. And _you_ get lost."

"We'll call the cops…"

Horatio laughed. "Oh yeah? I _am_ a cop, you fool." _Liar… _"I'll count to three…"

The three took off, two away from him, the one he had perceived as being the victim, towards him.

"Thanks, man," he gasped, as he dashed past him and disappeared.

Horatio holstered the gun and walked briskly to the hotel. His heart was thumping. _And what was that little show about, Horatio? You'll end up in jail. _He knew it would have been an overreaction, even if he had still been a cop and on home turf, although the flood of adrenaline had been oddly enjoyable. _You're losing it, pal…_ He was fairly sure there wouldn't be repercussions, this time. Nevertheless, he was somewhat relieved to get his car back the next day. He locked the Beretta in the glove box, checked out of the hotel, and started back.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 12

He almost missed the sign. He had driven past it at least twice after all. It said simply 'To Rent, End of the Lane', plus the details of a Los Angeles realtor. He pulled in and got out of the car. It was scorching hot still, though the sun was sinking towards the sea. The sign was on the side of the highway away from the ocean, at the end of an unsurfaced lane. It was sun-bleached, and crooked, so he assumed it had been there a while. It was easy to miss. Whatever was 'to rent' was out of sight. Curious, though not hopeful, he pushed open a metal gate. From its stiffness, and the weeds growing in the lane, it didn't seem anyone used the route regularly. Nevertheless, it was clearly private.

He went back, locked the car and began to walk. The lane climbed very gradually upwards and he was sweating. After several hundred yards, he was tempted to write it off as a wild goose chase, and go back to the car, then he rounded a bend and came across a house. It wasn't big, single-storied, and, from the unkempt state of the yard, fairly obviously empty. He picked his way to the door. Just in case, he knocked, but all was silent. He walked round, peering through the windows. From what he could see, it was furnished, and in surprising style. In back, there was a covered terrace, and an empty swimming pool. He looked round. The sea wasn't visible from here. Hills rose up on one side. Getting his bearings from the sun, he thought the terrace faced south-east – morning sun… It was quiet. No neighbors…

There was a rustling in the bushes. He felt a moment's alarm – he supposed there could well be mountain lions round here, and his gun was in the car. But a smallish brown dog appeared from the overgrown grass.

"Hello, boy… Who are you?"

The dog paused, head cocked. It was dirty and matted, presumably a stray. He held out an encouraging hand.

"Come here…" But the dog turned tail and disappeared.

The sun had set and the light was going. He walked slowly back to his car, closing the gate carefully behind him. He noted the realtor's address, and drove back to his hotel.

* * *

He went there next morning. "Tell me about the house at the end of the lane between…"

The realtor interrupted him. "I know where you mean. What's your interest?"

"Well, maybe renting it." _Obviously…_

The man looked surprised. "Really? You're serious?"

"You are advertising it, aren't you?" Horatio felt slight irritation. "It's your sign on the gate."

"I'm sorry. I don't do much rental – mostly sales. That was a favor for someone. I've had it on the books a long time."

"Why? Something wrong with it?"

"Not really. Cute little place. But… this is LA. People expect shops, beauticians, movie theaters, super-fast broadband…"

"I don't. So tell me about it. I did walk up to look."

"Well, it's a bit primitive. The water supply is a borehole, the sewerage goes to a cesspit…"

"It all works, doesn't it?"

"Far as I know. They spent a lot of money on it. It has got electricity – it's on the grid. It's got no landline. Cell coverage is a bit hit-and-miss. It used to have satellite TV. There's no trash collection, but I think there's a mail delivery, at least to the gate."

Horatio laughed. "Wow, I'd hate to hear you trying to sell something! Come on, tell me everything. Bad landlord?"

"Tell the truth, I think he's forgotten about it. Demetrio Kosta?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar."

"Movie producer… He took up with that reality star, Lucy something-or-other. 'End of the Lane' was supposed to be his little love nest."

"Is that actually its name?"

"It was named after one of his films."

"Never heard of it. So what happened?"

"His paramour hated it. It's about five miles even to get a gallon of milk. No deliveries. And I think she was… high maintenance. Couldn't cope without a hair stylist on call."

Horatio chuckled. "I know the type. Can I have a look at it?"

"I ought to escort you… You're not going to steal anything, are you?"

"I was a cop for thirty odd years… So probably not." He took the keys from the man.

"Take a look then. Let me know what you think."

Horatio turned to go, then turned back. "Oh, there was a dog running about up there. Are there other houses around?"

"Not that near. No, don't know anything about a dog."

* * *

Horatio drove back that afternoon. It was over ten miles from his hotel. This time, he opened the gate wide and drove to the cottage. His initial impression was reinforced. The place had been furnished expensively, in rather flamboyant style. The main room had a wood-burning stove, but the whole house appeared to have electric heating. It smelled stuffy and closed up. He found the air-conditioning and flicked the switch, but it was clear the electricity was turned off. The bedroom had a king-size bed; the kitchen, granite surfaces and up-market appliances. _Poor Demetrio – you weren't appreciated…_

He flicked through some DVDs, among them 'The End of the Lane', and others bearing the producer's name. He realised they were all 'adult' in nature. It was no wonder that the name hadn't been that familiar to him, since such films were definitely not one of his interests. He had seen enough of the seamy side of human behaviour to last him a lifetime.

He turned his attention back to the cottage. He was looking for solitude, but was this too much? He looked out at the back yard. Past the terrace and the pool… it was overgrown but of a decent size. He unlocked the terrace door, and stepped outside.

It was a sheltered spot. Hot as Hades. He could imagine keeping cool in that pool… The only sounds were the occasional chirp of woodland birds, and the distant cry of gulls. Not a breeze stirred the trees. There was a shed hidden at the furthest point of the yard. He found a key for the padlock; inside, what looked to be an unused lawnmower, and sundry tools. He locked the door again. He pushed through overgrown weeds, to find the fence. It was high, and in good order. He realised that the lack of humidity meant – unlike Miami – no rot or disrepair. But it was so quiet… He had never lived anywhere this quiet. City boy by birth. At heart? He wasn't sure.

Hills rose on one side of the property. He supposed it might be State Park land. He wondered about wildlife. Snakes, presumably. Cougars, probably… Thoughtfully, he locked the little house and drove back down the lane, musing that it was a good indication of the area that no one had broken into it. He imagined few knew it was there. He parked by the highway, and crossed towards the ocean. If he couldn't reach the sea, then it was a definite 'no'. The sun was scorching. He walked about fifty yards in one direction, then the same, or further, in the other, until he found a possible way down the cliffs. It was a little-used path, but looked reasonably safe. He started down.

_You're going to regret this, boy… What goes down has to come up. Or something… _It wasn't as bad as it looked. The path levelled somewhat, then descended a last few yards to the beach. Horatio found some shade and sat down. It was almost like a private beach – there was no one in sight. More solitude? But wasn't that what he was looking for?

When he'd recovered his breath, he climbed back, settled gratefully into the air-conditioned comfort of the Jeep and drove, deep in thought, back to the city.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 13

Horatio returned the keys to the agent.

"What did you think?" The man was eager.

"I liked it," he replied honestly. "It needs a bit of attention. The pool…"

"I can get a pool boy in…"

"It needs a gardener. The power's off, so all the appliances need checking – and probably a service… A check of the water quality…"

"I'll arrange it."

Horatio smiled. "You're very keen. I'll have to go back and look for what's wrong with it."

The agent sighed. "There's nothing wrong with it, except location. You've got to really want peace and quiet. Most people don't. And, as I said, it's not my usual stock-in-trade, just a favor for Dennis – Demetrio, I should call him."

"Dennis?"

"His real name – I was at school with him. I'm Andy, by the way."

Horatio hesitated. It wasn't as if he was agreeing to buy it. If he hated it, he could move on… "I don't know, Andy. Can you bring the rent down a bit?"

Before he knew, it was a done deal, and he walked out with a six month lease on 'End of the Lane'.

* * *

He moved in a week later, dumping bags of food on the counter, and new linens in the bedroom. Andy had been true to his word. The house now smelled fresh and clean, and, at the touch of a button, the air-con purred into life. He tested the coffee maker, which was top-of-the-range, and took a mug onto the terrace. The pool glittered, blue and inviting, against a backdrop of a tidy if bland yard, and the smell of newly cut grass. _So far, so good. _He thought he'd enjoy having a private pool. It was so secluded, he thought he could probably skinny-dip. Perhaps not just yet – if there _were_ neighbors, he didn't want to frighten anyone. Most of all, he would enjoy staying in one place for a while, and looking after himself again.

It took time to get used to the quiet, but, when it got oppressive, he jogged down the lane, up the highway, and scrambled down to the beach. An hour or two there dispelled the ghosts. He had been away almost a year. While he had an urge to contact Eric – he never had written him – the rest of it was fading. It surprised him how easy it had been to let go. He suspected all the hurt was still inside him, somewhere, but he was becoming skilled at keeping it there, out of reach. That was his only concern about this place – too much time to think.

He had been there a week before he saw the dog again. Horatio was sitting on the terrace, when there was a rustling, and a small brown head appeared by the shed. This time he said nothing, just watched. The dog took a few steps towards him, then lost its nerve and ran back the way it had come. The next time he went out, he bought dog food, and, more in hope than expectation, a slip leash.

After another week, the dog – he'd mentally called it Henry, knowing that might change to Henrietta when he got a closer look – was taking food from a bowl that he moved nearer and nearer the house. Having found a regular food source, it visited every day, and soon Horatio could put the bowl on the edge of the terrace. Still nervous, the dog would dart up, gobble the offering, and take off.

It was quite a while before he could touch it. The first time, as he put a gentle hand on its head, he felt it start, about to run, but then it seemed to press into his hand, as if it had been a long time since it had felt a pleasurable touch.

He risked talking, softly. "Hello, little one… what happened to you? You wandering too?"

It didn't stay long, but it came back. It seemed to want the contact, which made him certain it hadn't always been feral. He would talk to it, talk nonsense… Or sometimes the truth. "You know, dog, you're absolutely filthy. And you stink…" It was said kindly, and the dog still wagged its tail.

Then, one day, it went to the open door, looked at him once, and marched inside without a backward glance. He chuckled and got up to follow. He was pleased, but the animal _was_ filthy, and did stink, and he had no idea if it would accept a bath. It wasn't as if he had much experience of dogs, at least, not since childhood. But… nothing ventured… And he certainly couldn't share his house with this rancid creature. It wasn't something that could wait.

He ushered the dog into the bathroom and shut the door. "If you're going to freak, do it now," he murmured.

Horatio stripped off his shirt and pants, expecting a wet and dirty business, and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature to 'warm', all the while watching the dog. He expected it to try to escape, and was surprised at its equanimity. "Not your first bath then?"

He continued to talk to it as he eased it into the water. There was a brief struggle, but the dog calmed down under his gentle but firm handling. It soon seemed to turn into a game: he got the dog wet, applied shampoo – his shampoo – and the dog shook violently, sending sprays of foul-smelling muddy water over Horatio, up the walls, puddled on the floor…

He chuckled. "Don't _do_ that," but he was pleased the animal was tolerating it at all. Definitely not feral…

It took three shampoos and rinses until the dog it had once been emerged. It was a 'he', a neutered male. "Hello, Henry."

Eventually, he turned the shower off, and wrapped a sweeter smelling Henry in a towel, taking him outside to dry. He'd have to clean himself, and the bathroom, later. Meanwhile, an unflustered Henry sat on the terrace, licking his fur and basking in the warmth.

"Better, huh? You _look_ better." He did. His fur was actually much nearer red than brown. He was like a big terrier, of indeterminate parentage. Best, he was friendly, and cheeky, and… just what Horatio felt he needed. He didn't think of himself as a dog person, but it was someone to talk to and walk with. Non-judgemental, and maybe as much in need of a friend as he was himself. He had assumed he was a stray, but accepted somebody might be looking for him. That thought depressed him.

* * *

The next day, he slipped the leash on, and showed him the car. Henry leapt onto the front seat without hesitation, and stayed there as Horatio drove into the city, and to the vet.

"I think he's a stray… he's been wandering round my yard…" he explained. "So could you just… check him over, give him his shots…" He left a troubled-looking Henry and went to stock up on supplies.

He returned after an hour and was greeted by the vet, and a frantically wagging dog. He bent to stroke him. "Sorry, pal. Did you think you were being abandoned again?" He looked at the vet. "How's he doing?"

"I've got good news and bad news."

"Go on…" Horatio took the leash from her.

"Well, he's not micro-chipped, so there's no owner to return him to. You said he's been running wild for a while?"

"I saw him weeks ago. And he was absolutely filthy, so I'd say, yes. So can I keep him?"

"I ought to say, put a 'found' ad up, in case someone is searching… But you suit each other." She smiled. "A matched pair, in fact. Look, it's up to you how much effort you make. I checked our records – as far as I can see he was never a patient here. I really don't have sympathy for people who don't get their pets chipped. But that's just me."

He nodded. "I'll give it some thought. What else?"

"He's not a baby. I'd estimate about seven or eight years old. The bad news is, he's got heart disease."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, at the moment. I'll give you some medication which he should take for the rest of his life. That life may be just a little shorter than in a healthy dog."

"We can't do anything?"

"Sorry. As far as I can tell, it's a congenital weakness."

"How long?" Horatio tried to sound matter-of-fact.

"Two years? Maybe more, maybe less… He can have a good life – he'll probably fade very rapidly when he does go. Until then, just a normal life, although probably avoid really strenuous exercise. I'll give you some literature." She chuckled. "I'm rather assuming he's staying with you."

"I think that's a fair bet."

"I've given him his shots, treated him for ticks, and wormed him. So he's fit to go. Do you want me to chip him?"

"Oh yes, definitely."

"Just hold him – it stings them a bit."

It did. It produced a mighty yelp from Henry, almost the first sound Horatio had heard him make.

The vet patted him, rubbing the injected area. "See, Henry, not so bad…"

_Wasn't you that had a huge needle between the shoulder-blades… _But Henry obviously didn't hold a grudge, as he licked the vet's hand.

"He's a sweetheart. He's not lost his trust of humans. Have a good life, Henry."

Horatio smiled. "He will. We will."

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 14

Time passed surprisingly quickly. You didn't have to be having fun, Horatio realised, you simply had to be getting old. Which he was – sixty-one, though he rarely felt it. Jogging, hiking, swimming – lots of swimming – and his body was still lean and fit. More so than it used to be, he thought. It wasn't vanity – who, after all, was going to see him? It was more that, living alone and so remotely, the last thing he needed was ill-health.

Having driven for thousands of miles in his first months of wandering, now he hardly drove at all. He fetched supplies every two or three weeks, and that was it. He had no visitors. Well, apart from three sturdy German tourists who mistook his lane for a hiking trail. Their English was limited, his German non-existent, but they were soon – politely - re-directed. Horatio went out next day and added a chain and a 'Private' notice to the gate.

Henry proved a joy. He was loyal to a fault, never far from his master's side. He wasn't noisy, unless any animal – usually a squirrel – invaded his space. The only time he objected was when he was left behind, but Horatio never took him in the car when he was going to have to park it somewhere. Far too hot… Once or twice, back in Miami, he had seen the distressing sight of animals, overheated to death, being removed from cars. Like it or not – and he certainly didn't – Henry stayed behind. He showed few signs of a compromised heart, except for panting a lot. It was difficult to keep him from over-exerting himself. He seemed to love life, and to love having a home and a master. Horatio wondered how he had ever come to be homeless.

And Horatio finally put pen to paper…

_Dear Eric_

_I know it's been too long. I tried to write you, really I did, but there was so much I couldn't put into words. I seemed to need some distance/time._

_Now I'll try again. I know you got my old job – amazing what you can find out on the internet. I hope it proves more of a pleasure than a burden. I know it can be both. I also know that you'll do a brilliant job._

_So… what happened? I lost it, Eric, plain and simple, lost my grip on reality and the concept of right and wrong. I couldn't face the scumbags day-in, day-out, and then see the justice system giving them soft sentences. Some people just need eradicating, period. No, it wasn't my call to make, I know that. And vigilante-ism has no place in a police force. If ever you feel yourself going down that road, please heed the warnings before it takes you over._

_Hell, what gives me the right to give advice! All I know is, I went on too long and then I went too far. And then I couldn't face any of you, and I ran away._

_I am so so sorry for doing that. I should have explained myself, to you and Calleigh at the very least, and taken my punishment. But, too late now. Two years nearly… I can't believe it. So please, try to accept my apology and don't think too badly of me. Perhaps just take it as a warning of what can happen._

_I don't know how many of the old guard are still there, but pass my apologies on to them too. They deserved better than me, and I'm sure they now have it. I hope at least some of you have found happiness with partners, kids, dogs, whatever. It's not easy to be alone, but too easy to let it happen. It creeps up on you._

_I'm in California at the moment. I'm okay, health good, got a dog to keep me company… Life's very different, but not unenjoyable. I may come back to Miami one day. Just not yet. Don't worry about me (if indeed you do – probably flattering myself)._

_You know the song? 'Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention'. Not so. I regret so much. I'd like to do it all again, differently. The faults are all mine – thinking I was above getting hurt, 'losing it'. Well, I found out, didn't I? Not quite as resilient as I thought I was!_

_Take care, brother. I will try to keep in touch more, and again, I'm sorry for letting you all down._

_A rather humble, _

_Horatio_

_P.S. Just re-read this. I think it's a bit self-pitying! However, as I've written so many letters, only to throw them away, I'll send this one. I do get my self-pitying moments, I admit it! _

He addressed the letter to the lab, thinking that Eric had probably moved home by now. Then he put it to one side. He'd mail it next time he was out. Maybe.

* * *

In all the time he'd been there, he'd never seen anyone on the beach. Consequently, he was startled to climb down the path one day, and see a woman, sitting some way away, staring out to sea. Henry took off in the opposite direction, while Horatio sat down and watched the woman. In truth, he felt annoyed at an intrusion on 'his' beach.

She caught sight of him, got up, picked up a backpack, and sashayed over to him. Dressed in shorts and tee shirt, with a bandanna round her fair hair, she appeared young… mid-twenties, perhaps? As she got close, he realised she was probably ten years older than that. Not unattractive, just a little 'worn'. _Aren't we all?_ She flashed him a warm smile, and got a slightly cooler one in return.

She held up a hand in a 'peace' sign. "Okay, man?"

"I'm okay. You?"

"Oh, I'm good. Have to be, don't you?"

Horatio chuckled. "That's true." He remembered his somewhat dormant manners. "Sorry – I just never see anyone down here. What's your name?"

"Frankie."

"Hi, Frankie. Short for Frances?"

She shrugged. "Suppose. I've always been Frankie. This your beach?"

He raised his eyebrows, questioningly.

"I mean, is it private here?"

"Not that I know of. Please, help yourself. Sit down."

He watched her drop neatly into a cross-legged position beside him.

She looked at him, openly curious. "So what do you do? You don't look like a bum."

"Nothing. I'm retired."

"You look kinda young to be retired."

He was flattered but tried not to show it.

"Retired from what?"

"Nosy, aren't you?" he replied amiably. "I was a cop."

She looked alarmed. "Oh Jeez, trust me to find a cop!"

"I'm not one now."

"Do you, sort of, give up the oath when you retire?"

"What do you know about the oath?"

"I've been around. I've had cops."

He chuckled at the choice of words. "I'll bet."

"So where were you a cop? Here? I mean, LA?" she asked.

"You ask too many questions."

"Is it a secret?"

"Nope. New York, then Miami."

She seemed impressed. "Wow, Miami! I'll get there one day. Why did you come here?"

"Fancied a change."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I'm like that. I like to keep moving. What's your name?"

"Horatio."

"Say again?"

"Horatio."

"Jeez, your Mom must've hated you! Bet you had a hard time at school."

"They tried." He gestured to himself. "Red hair and a name like that? They only tried once, mind."

"Tough guy, were you?"

"Still am, Frankie."

She regarded him, her head on one side. "I believe that. So how'd you get here?"

"What? California?"

"No, stupid! Here. This bit of sand."

"I live nearby." He pointed vaguely behind him. "What about you?"

"Hitching up to Frisco. Last guy was a groper, so I got out. Just came to sit on the beach for a bit, then I'll get going… Hey, who's that?"

Horatio looked where she indicated. "That's my dog, Henry."

"Oh, he's cute! Here, boy…"

The dog galloped up, licked Horatio, and took a circumspect sniff at Frankie. Deciding she was harmless, he gave her a quick lick too, before trotting off to explore the tideline.

She grinned. "Matched pair – Big Red and Little Red… Why are looking like that?"

"Like what?"

She laughed. "Like a cop. What are you thinking? I'm too old to be hitching round California? I'm thirty-six - just an old hippie, man."

"I didn't say anything."

They were silent for a while. Henry ambled back and settled beside his master. He was panting, and Horatio frowned. "Don't you wear yourself out, dog…"

"It's a hot day," Frankie observed.

"I know, but he's got a bad heart. He just doesn't know it. If he gets too winded, I have to carry him home. And that is not fun."

"That's sad. Poor old Henry." She reached over to stroke the dog, stroking Horatio's knee in the process.

He didn't comment on it. "What do you do? For a living, I mean."

"Anything I can get. Waiting tables. Bar work. Or did you mean, do I make it on my back? Occasionally, if I'm desperate. Why? You buying?"

"Not at the moment."

"Oh, you got someone…"

"Nope."

"You can have a free one, if you like. I'm clean."

"Frankie, Frankie! You're certainly too old to go round handing it out to any man you meet!"

"I don't! Don't be so rude. I like you, that's all."

"You don't know me." He was silent for a while. "You won't get a ride easily – not along here – will you?"

She shrugged. "Then I'll walk. Why? You going to drive me?"

"Not to San Francisco, I'm not! Look, there's a diner and a couple of shops, about ten miles north… Hardly a truck stop, but I'd think you'd find someone there. I'll drive you up there, if you like."

"Why would you do that?"

"Must be feeling kind. C'mon… You can help me carry Henry…"

* * *

That proved unnecessary. Henry, after his short rest, was quite capable of making it home. Horatio unlocked the door and let them in.

Frankie walked round, opening doors to look in other rooms, clearly unabashed at her nosiness. "Wow, what a great place…"

"I think so. I only rent it, unfortunately. Coffee, or hit the road?"

"The road. If it gets too late, I'll never get a ride. Anyway, I like to see who's offering while it's still light."

For once, he left the dog asleep on the bed, and drove north. Frankie chattered incessantly, but he didn't really mind. _You can have too much silence…_

As she got out, he said, "Will you do me a favor?"

"Of course."

He handed her an envelope. "Stick this in the mail for me – somewhere well away from here."

"Wow, you're a strange one." She tucked the letter into her backpack, and kissed him on the cheek. "You're a nice man, Horatio."

"For a cop? Good luck. If you're ever passing, come and have that coffee."

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 15

Walter knocked and came into Eric's office without waiting for permission. "I need to ask a favor, boss…"

"Yes?"

"I'm… getting married. I wondered if you would be my groomsman?"

"What? Married? You?" Eric hid his surprise very badly.

"And why not?" Walter looked indignant. "Good-looking guy like me?"

Eric chuckled. "Why not indeed? I'm sorry – congratulations. I didn't even know you were dating seriously."

"Not all of us conduct our love lives in public."

"What's her name?"

"Darlene." Walter took out his wallet and proudly showed Eric a photo.

"She's very pretty. And very tiny." The woman barely came up to Walter's shoulder.

The big man wagged his finger. "I know the way your mind works, Delko. I'm very careful."

Eric laughed. "I'm happy for you, Walter. Is she in law enforcement?"

"She's an air traffic controller. Nerves of steel."

"She'll need them. Seriously, I _am_ happy for you. And I'd be honored to be your groomsman."

Walter looked suddenly serious. "I don't suppose you know how I can get in touch with Horatio… I'd really like him to be there."

Eric sighed. "I wish I knew, Walter. No, I've got no number or address for him. He's made very sure of that."

* * *

It was Eric's second surprise in two days. As Walter went out, Eric opened a desk drawer and took out the letter. He'd read it several times already. When it arrived, he had recognised the writing and ripped it open eagerly. Now his feelings were mixed. Relief – that Horatio was in one piece. Anger – that he still didn't trust him with an address. The postmark read 'Sacramento'. He picked up the phone.

"Calleigh – you busy?"

"Always." He could hear her smile. Walter's news had given him an odd pang of regret – he'd harbored such hopes where Calleigh was concerned… Once… He understood their romantic involvement was well and truly in the past. Life moved on. "You need something?"

"Not really. I've got something I think you'd like to see."

Calleigh read the letter slowly and thoroughly. "Ohhh…"

"What?"

"He sounds so sad."

"You think so?" Eric was surprised. "I thought he didn't sound too bad. He says he's well…"

"He also says 'It's not easy to be alone,' and how he regrets everything. No address, I presume?"

"No. Sacramento postmark, but… no – he still doesn't want to be found." He forced a smile. "Have you heard Walter's news?"

"Yes, it's great, isn't it? I've met Darlene – she's lovely. Very bright and funny."

"He showed me a pic. She looks tiny."

"Oh, she is, and she's got Walter completely under her thumb. You know, this department deserves something good, like a wedding."

Again, Eric thought it could have been he and Calleigh. His ambivalence must have shown in his face, for Calleigh frowned. "What?"

"Oh… Walter asked if he could get in touch with Horatio… If he can, he's a better detective than I am."

"Horatio will come back when he's good and ready."

"You reckon?"

"I do."

"He's been gone a long time. Two years… more…"

"And now he's written. I'd say he's coming round."

* * *

She was guessing, but in fact Horatio had thought about moving on. But now he had Henry to consider. He loved that dog. He had never expected to feel that way about an animal, but there it was. Fact. And Henry was happy. Horatio could not imagine dumping him in a car, and driving… Finding hotels that would take a dog… He knew Henry would follow him without a murmur, but was it fair? And, though he tried to push it to the back of his mind, there was the dog's health to consider. How much longer did he have? Did he deserve to spend it anywhere but here, in the hills and on the beach? So Horatio stayed. And the months passed.

Horatio had taken up gardening. He was, he would have readily admitted, a complete novice, but he had picked up a tatty book in a thrift shop one day _– 'Why pay the producers? Grow your own veggies'_ – and taken it home to read. It didn't seem complicated. He found a spade in the shed and set to work, incurring sunburn and a sore back for his trouble. Undeterred, he bought a few plants – he decided he was too impatient and unskilled for seed – and set them in the newly dug vegetable patch. Optimistically, he planted tomatoes, squash and zucchini. Henry was entranced, and the two of them fought a short battle over the young plants, and their potential as playthings. He seemed particularly drawn to the baby tomato plants. Eventually, his fixation was satisfied when Horatio fetched a firm and barely ripe tomato from the fridge and gave him that. He played with it until he was tired, while Horatio watered his new garden.

Then he sat and watched the sleeping dog, his front paws still holding a rather battered tomato. He thought it was odd, since balls and other toys had never interested him. Perhaps it was the smell of the fruit… He tiptoed indoors and came back with paper and pencil, and sketched the pup. It wasn't a great drawing, but it wasn't a bad one either. He remembered having some skill in that direction as a youngster. At least, his teachers had thought so. His father had thought it a complete waste of time, and a bit effeminate to boot; 'namby-pamby' he called it, and his drawings had ended up in the trash. He hadn't persevered. Red hair and a complicated name gave the bullies enough ammunition, without adding art to the mix. So he'd never seriously tried again. But it was relaxing… Like gardening, it seemed to soothe the soul.

* * *

He was sitting on the terrace one day, sketching – from memory this time – the beach and the rocks. It was unseasonably chilly and there was a light rain pock-marking the surface of the pool. Henry had already retreated indoors. Horatio went in to fetch a sweatshirt and found the dog asleep in the middle of the bed.

"Lazy devil," he murmured affectionately.

Henry opened an eye, then closed it and curled up tighter. Horatio went back to the terrace. He liked watching the rain. He added a small Henry to his sketch. As if on cue, the dog barked. It was his 'bark-growl-bark' that usually signalled intruders – squirrels. _Please don't let there be a squirrel indoors… _While Henry always barked at them, he didn't go as far as catching them.

Horatio went back into the house and heard the knock at the door. Surprised, he shushed Henry and opened it. Recognition took a few moments.

"Frankie?" She was bedraggled and gave him a relieved smile.

"I hoped you'd still be here. Or I'd look a bit of an idiot."

"You're soaked. Come in."

"I didn't know it rained in Southern California. Hey, isn't that a song?" She bent down to stroke a wagging Henry. "Hello, pups. Glad you're still here too."

Horatio looked at his dripping visitor. "Do you want a coffee?"

"That'd be good. Do you think I could use your shower?"

He smiled at her forwardness, but showed her the way. "Help yourself. Towels in the closet," then went to put the coffee on.

A little later, with her wet clothes, and, it seemed, most of the contents of her backpack, churning away in the washing machine, they sat in the main room and talked.

"So how did you end up back here?" he asked.

"I wanted to say hello. My boyfriend dropped me off."

"Boyfriend, eh?"

"Well, sort of. Not really. He's a trucker." She sipped the coffee, and pulled a face. "Gee, man, got any sugar?"

He chuckled and got up to fetch some.

"So, I met this guy about a week ago. Ronny… He was going west, when I really wanted to go east, but…" She shrugged. "He's kinda cute." She stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into the coffee. "So we came this way instead."

"He's not waiting outside for you, is he?"

"Shit, no! He wouldn't do that. I had to twist his arm to get him to come past here at all. He's got to drop some stuff off at the port. Then, we're going east."

"East where?"

"Don't know. Who knows, I might even get to Miami." He wondered if her enthusiasm ever waned. He couldn't think of a much more depressing way of life. "So… I said I wanted to visit a friend, and I'd catch up with him tomorrow. Can I sleep on your couch?"

"I suppose so." He couldn't quite hide his smile. _Shower, coffee, laundry, overnight stay… _He knew she'd drive him mad in days, but a single night seemed harmless. "Anything else I can do for you, ma'am?"

She laughed. "Oh, say that again. 'Ma'am'."

He obliged.

"No one ever calls me ma'am."

"Cop's habit. All ladies were 'ma'am'."

"Even if not all ma'ams were ladies… I've never been either."

_Don't say it, Horatio! _ "I've only got pasta for supper. I need to stock up. That okay?"

"God, you cook too? How come you haven't been snapped up?" But even she seemed to recognise a shadow falling. "Sorry, not my business. I know, I ask too many questions." She turned to pick up his sketch pad. "You did these? They're good."

"Not very. I just do it to relax."

"'Henry with Tomato'… I love it."

The evening, with supper, and clothes-drying, passed in a blur of Frankie-chatter. Horatio, rather to his shame, found he switched off, contributing an occasional 'oh' and 'really', which was all that was needed. His gentlemanly instincts, dormant, but still there, somewhere, told him he should offer her the bed, rather than the couch, but, really, why should he? He quite liked her – in very small doses – but he'd been gate-crashed. And he liked his bed. And Henry slept there… So he gave her a blanket and a pillow and wished her goodnight.

He was unsurprised when, in the middle of the night, he heard a low rumble from Henry, and felt the bed move.

"Frankie…"

"Sshh. Just a little thank you."

"You don't need…"

"I know that."

He supposed he should have protested more, but he didn't. He didn't say anything at all, as she reached for him, expertly applied a condom and – he wouldn't say 'made love', since it didn't really involve love – gently had sex with him. It had been a long time, and was surprisingly pleasant. Surprising only in that he hadn't really missed it. He felt her hands stroking him, and finding one of his several scars.

"What's that?" she whispered.

"Scar. Bullet wound. Long time ago…"

She burrowed down the bed, and planted a kiss on the scar on his side.

When he awoke in the morning she was gone. Her clothes had gone, everything was tidy. His suspicious nature surfacing, he wondered if anything else was gone, anything of his… But all that seemed to be missing was one of his sketches – 'Henry with Tomato'. In its place, a note: 'Live long and prosper, sweet man. F.'

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 16

Little Henry was fading. He had refused food for two days. This evening, instead of lying on the cool slabs of the terrace, he had tried to jump on Horatio's lap. Tried, and failed, landing in a defeated and bewildered heap at his feet. Horatio had immediately scooped him up, and stroked and stroked him. He could feel the dog's ribs through his fur, his chest heaving for breath; as he panted, Horatio noticed the bluish tinge of his tongue.

"Is it time, little man?" he said gently. "Are we going our separate ways?"

His eyes flooded with tears as Henry gave the smallest of whines, and licked his fingers. He had known it was coming. At one time he had thought he could help his friend on his way himself. A single shot. The dog would feel nothing. Now he knew he could never do it; couldn't look at those trusting eyes as he delivered the coup de grâce; couldn't bear the damage to the handsome little head. He wasn't that brave.

He had never loved an animal like this. It was a measure of how much he'd changed in the… how long?... nearly five years since he'd left Miami.

He tried to keep his voice steady. "We'll go and see the nice lady vet tomorrow, shall we? See what she says…" He picked Henry up in his arms, carried him inside, and placed him on his own bed. A part of him hoped the dog would simply die in the night, but life was rarely that kind. The next morning, he put him gently on the front seat of the car and drove to the city.

The vet led them straight through. "When they said Henry was coming in, I thought it couldn't be the same Henry. Four years…" She examined Henry gently, felt his skinny body, listened to his heart. "I'm sorry, Mr Caine… You know what I'm going to say…"

"He mustn't suffer…"

"He can't go on like this. Do you want me to..?"

He nodded, wordlessly, biting his lip, hard, to try to hold back tears. He reached out to stroke the red fur, and was rewarded with a single wag of the tail.

"Do you want to wait outside?" the vet asked.

"No, I want to be with him."

It was peaceful. The dog barely moved as the fur was shaved; only when Horatio took his paw to hold the leg steady did he perk up a bit. "Lie still, little man. Won't be long…" The injection went in smoothly, and the life drained from the brown eyes. "Goodbye. Godspeed…" Horatio instinctively reached to close the eyes, and found himself unable to hold back his emotions. The tears streamed down his usually impassive face. He felt the vet's arms round him and whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry. I don't usually…"

"It's okay. Remember, you gave him a great few years, and now the greatest gift of all – a gentle passing…" Someone brought him a cup of tea. "Just sit down, while I do the paperwork." He watched, numbly, as a nurse covered Henry's body with a towel. "Are you leaving him with us?"

"What? Oh, no – I'll take him home. Bury him."

He buried the small red dog in the yard. He wondered briefly whether he should have had a cremation; then he could take the ashes with him… He knew it made not the slightest difference. It never did. It was just a corpse, a carcass… the bright little soul had already flown. And yet… And yet, whenever he thought of his pet, lying in the earth, instead of beside him, the tears came again.

Horatio found a smooth stone and carefully turned it into a grave marker. He sketched a small Henry on it, then touched it in with red-brown paint. And he kept crying. It was crazy. He'd shed fewer tears over… well, anyone, any human. He put it down to his own age, his mental fragility. He'd always denied there was anything fragile in his psyche, but deep down, knew the truth. He'd fought it for so many years, handling tragedy and trauma with an icy aplomb, believing firmly that expressions of grief should be private - only to have his defenses shattered by a dog. But he supposed it had happened to better men than him…

A few days later, he drove into the city, visited the real estate agent, and gave a month's notice on 'End of the Lane'.

* * *

_Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware_

_Of giving your heart to a dog to tear._

* * *

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 17

"So tell us what you saw, ma'am…"

"Frankie, not ma'am. I didn't see much. I heard a shot, looked outside and there was someone on the ground… And someone running off…"

"Think hard," Sergeant Lyall said firmly. "What else?"

"Nothing else, man! It was dark, anyway."

"Did you know the dead woman?"

"No. She was in the bar. She went outside, and got shot." She shrugged.

"Did anyone follow her out?"

She shook her head slowly. "Don't think so."

"So who else was in the bar?"

"I don't know! I've only been here a couple of weeks. I don't know anyone in Miami."

Sergeant Lyall studied his witness. She had given her age as thirty-seven, though she was probably older; and dressed considerably younger, her skirt short and tight; a vest barely disguising surprisingly pert breasts. He wasn't sure what he made of her. Possibly a hooker, but probably not a junkie or a drunk. She looked what he thought of as 'well-worn'. No visible track marks or anything. Whatever she was, she clearly wasn't stoned or dumb. Or thirty-seven. But if she didn't see anything, she didn't.

"Can I go?"

"You staying in Miami long?"

"A few weeks. If you want me, you've got my number." She winked at him.

He chuckled. She was forward. And at least five years older than him. But somehow, not offensive. "I'll keep a note of that, ma'am."

She turned to go, and then stopped, her hand on the door. "Did you ever have someone work here, called Horatio?"

It was too unusual a name to forget, even though Bobby Lyall had never met the man. "He was Crime Lab. He left… I don't know… four years ago?"

"That'd be about right."

"You know him?" He was curious. Horatio Caine was a legend, but his departure had always seemed to have a shadow hanging over it. He'd never really inquired, rather assuming that the Crime Lab's star player had gone rogue.

"I met him, a couple of times."

"Ma'am, can you spare us a few more minutes? I know someone who'd like to talk to you." He picked up the phone to call the current head of the Crime Lab.

* * *

"You _met_ him? You sure?" Eric Delko was stunned. He didn't really like to believe in coincidences. "When?"

"Oh, years back. Four or five."

"Where? Here?"

"No, man! First time I've been here. First time, and someone gets murdered in front of me… It's his fault I'm here – he told me what a great place it was."

"Where? Where did you meet Horatio?"

"Los Angeles."

Eric was still doubtful. "Describe him."

"Six foot, or a bit less. Skinny. Red hair. Blue eyes. I remember the eyes."

Eric felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Hey, Mister… You okay?"

"It's a shock, that's all. Tell me everything."

"Not much to tell. I met him on a beach. He had a little red dog with him."

"That's it?"

"No. He helped me out with a ride… I saw him again, a few months later. Sweet guy…"

Eric smiled. "He could be."

"He was living in a cute house in the middle of nowhere."

"I don't suppose you've got an address or a phone number?"

She shook her head. "I could probably find it again, but no, I don't know the address. Anyway, it was years back… He's probably moved. It was only rented – he told me."

_But maybe not…_ "You've got a good memory," Eric said suspiciously.

"I tend to remember people I've slept with. I mean, the ones I've slept with from choice."

"You were… together?"

"Oh, not like you mean. Just ships passing, you know…"

Eric smiled. "Have you got time for some lunch, Frankie?"

"It's important, huh?"

"Probably only to me."

* * *

Frankie took full advantage of the free lunch, but Eric learned very little more about her encounter with his elusive brother-in-law. He had little doubt it was his Horatio that she had met, but their conversations, as far as she could recall, had been short on personal information, and shorter still on future plans. Which sounded like Horatio. That he'd taken up sketching, and gardening, and that he owned a dog, did not. However, she had apparently spent a night – just one – with him, and mentioned 'a hell of a scar' on his right flank.

As they got up to leave, she suddenly stopped, rummaged in her backpack, and pulled out a slightly dog-eared piece of paper. Eric took it and unfolded it.

"What is this? 'Henry with Tomato'?" He examined the sketch.

"That's his dog, Henry."

"Did you draw this?"

"No, stupid!" She tapped the initials on the paper – 'HC'. "He did."

"Shit…" Eric sat down again.

"Actually, I stole it from him. Shouldn't have done that. Hey, man…" She looked anxiously at Eric's face. "You really loved him, huh? Do you want to keep it? The drawing?"

Eric nodded, wordlessly.

"So what will you do?"

"Go and look for him, I suppose."

* * *

He wanted nothing more than to hop on a plane and go to LA. At the back of his mind was the thought that, if he'd moved on, he'd have left no more traces than he had in Miami. But Eric needed to satisfy himself.

He couldn't go. Over the years, he'd got the lab running much as he wanted. He had kept his key staff – Ryan, Walter, a part-time Calleigh. The two recruits he'd taken on at the start were still here, which pleased him. The two Peters. Actually, one Peter and one Pierre, a French-Canadian. Or Big Pete and Little Pete… Only Natalia had moved on, and he needed to do something about replacing her. Steve, his administrative assistant – and hadn't they teased him about employing a man! – had proved invaluable. With neither a police nor a scientific background, he had nevertheless grasped what their jobs entailed, and where he could make it smoother. Eric no longer had to worry about the basics – what was due in court, and when, and were the relevant papers ready; what notes needed writing up; what staff assessments and budget plans were due; who he needed to talk to, and who needed to talk to him. And dozens of other things. He often wondered how Horatio had managed without. And why.

Between them, he and Steve had formalised the vacation rota, so the lab was never, barring emergencies, short-staffed in key areas. He had adopted, over the years, a proprietorial, almost paternal attitude to the lab and its people. If he lacked Horatio's flair, he knew he ran a tighter ship than his predecessor, and it worked. He couldn't be talked into bending the rules on work hours, or vacation rotas, without a very good reason. If they didn't love him, they at least respected him.

But he could hardly jet off to Los Angeles for what was, after all, a strictly personal matter. He did the next best thing – he called LAPD. He cited only a 'missing person', a cold case, a lead he'd come by. He played it cool, as something relatively unimportant, knowing he'd more likely get cop-to-cop cooperation that way. He was lucky, and ended up talking to a helpful sergeant. He gave him the location of the house, which Frankie had found on Google Earth.

"He rented this place a few years back, that's all I know."

"I'll have an ask round, when I've got time," the man promised. "If any of the boys are out that way, I'll get them to call in. That okay? What if he's there?"

"Get him to call me. No, _ask_ him to call me. It's important. I think he'll do it, 'specially if he sees a cop at the door."

"Get back to you."

That was really all he could do. The more he thought about it, the more of a long-shot it seemed. He had worked hard to put Horatio to the back of his mind, keeping the lightest of tabs on things – like the fact that the condo was still rented out, but was not up for sale. The postcards had, as he expected, stopped after about a year. The last one had, coincidentally, come from Los Angeles, which at least backed Frankie's unlikely tale. Then the letter… but that had been postmarked Sacramento… And even that was several years old now…

Eric tried to put a timeline together, but he had far too little to go on.

He didn't hear from LAPD for several weeks, but then the helpful sergeant called.

"Not what you want to hear – the house is empty and up for sale. It's owned by a trust, but I called the agent who's selling it, and had been handling the rental. He remembered your guy well enough, because he was there several years. He left a few months ago. So, really sorry, but you just missed him."

"Story of my life. Thanks, anyway."

"Wait, there's more. The agent said he mentioned going to New Orleans, although it was only a casual remark. Any use?"

"Certainly. I can't thank you enough. And I owe you an apology. It's… not really police business…"

The other man laughed. "I realised that when I googled the name. Was he a friend?"

"More than that. My brother-in-law. And, yes, a dear friend. A friend who walked out five years ago and disappeared." He sighed. "I'm sorry I lied to you. If there's any fallout, send it my way."

"Not a problem. I hope you find him."

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 18

_New Orleans… so now what? _Eric considered his options, which were few. He had used up most of his vacation for this year, and his moral code wouldn't allow him to take advantage of his position, and take time out that he would deny others.

Anyway, how much of a waste of time would it be? So, Horatio had 'casually' mentioned the place. Even if his casual plans had come to fruition, he might have meant just a visit. It didn't mean he was planning to settle down. In fact, probably not. He'd spent four or five years 'settled' in Los Angeles, so he might well be restless again. Eric fretted over this, while reading – and not concentrating on – the notes for an upcoming court case.

"Something wrong, boss?" Steve put a mug of coffee down beside him.

"What? Oh no, not with this… Sorry, I was miles away." _Miles and years…_

"Anything I can help with?"

"No… Personal stuff."

Steve was discreet enough not to pry. In fact, Eric fought shy of discussing it with anyone, even Calleigh. Certainly not Steve, who had never even known Horatio. He thought he was being a bit foolish to keep chasing his ghost. Except Horatio wasn't a ghost. Not to him. If there was one note of optimism in his musings it was that New Orleans was a hell of a lot nearer 'home' – Horatio's home – than Los Angeles.

Meanwhile, there was the move to a new lab building to consider. The existing building, which he loved, was overcrowded, packed to the gunnels. As forensics developed and moved on, there was simply more and more of it. There seemed to be more crime too, although he acknowledged that might be an illusion. His department had increased in size, almost doubling in the last five years. At last, money had been found to rehouse both the Crime Lab and the Police Department in new, purpose-built premises. Eric had seen the plans, admired an artist's impression, had even visited the site and seen the footings going in. They were supposed to move in the following year. It was supposed to be exciting, but Eric found it depressing as well. He assumed he just didn't like change, and this place had been witness to so much in his life. He hadn't realised he was so attached to it!

He looked at the timetable, and thought he might just squeeze in a week or two's vacation in February. Especially if the building was running late, as most building projects tended to. So, for now, he could do nothing. Except work, and there was plenty of that. _Concentrate, man…_

* * *

Eric was aware that the Chief was relying heavily on him to foresee potential problems in the design of the new building.

"You know what needs to be near what," he had said. Rather vaguely, Eric thought. "This place has just grown up, almost randomly. Now we've got the chance to redesign it from scratch…"

"Isn't it already designed?"

"The exterior, yes… Elevators, services, and so on inside… But the actual partitioning into various labs and offices – well, it's still flexible, for a little longer, so cast your expert eye over it, will you?"

Eric voiced his problem to Steve. "Trouble is, I'm used to how this place works. I'm used to where the evidence is kept, where we can process fingerprints…"

"Hard to stand back from it…"

"Exactly."

"Can't help you, boss. I don't _know_ what goes with what."

"Maybe you can. You don't have preconceptions. Dream up a crime for me… we'll walk it through the lab. You can make notes."

Steve looked doubtful. "Okay. Well… a shooting."

"In the street? Right. Have we got the bullet?"

"In the body. We've got a shell-casing."

"So the body goes to the morgue. Recover the bullet…"

"Does the morgue have to be in the basement?" Steve asked curiously.

"Ideally, on the first, so we don't have to have an elevator big enough for a gurney… And out of the way, so the public doesn't see the coroner's van, or bodies going in and out." They poured over the plans. "But they've got that right – look."

"Wow, it's big."

"At least twice the size of the one here… More modern… Better equipment. Or so Tom tells me. He's like a kid waiting for Christmas."

"Right, so we've got a bullet – off to ballistics?"

"Probably. But we've also got DNA and fingerprints from the body…"

"So you're saying everything needs to be near everything."

Eric laughed. "Steve, man, you have a knack of putting your finger on a problem!"

"Ah well, that's why you employed me. Suppose you tell me what _doesn't_ need to be nearby."

"Offices. Conference room. Interrogation suites. Lock-up – though that's really in PD's remit… Possibly the evidence store…"

"What about showers, bathrooms, locker rooms?"

"No leeway there –there have to be bathrooms on each floor… Showers and lockers… not sure. Drag the regulations out, will you?"

They went on discussing the plans, picking up one or two potential glitches as they did so, although nothing major.

"You know what's missing?" Steve murmured. "Somewhere to eat."

"There's a commissary – in PD's bit, like now."

"No one eats in there. The food's crap – begging your pardon, boss."

Eric laughed. "I know."

"You know what happens. There are good eating places round here – so you go out for breakfast, you go out for lunch… Us minions, of course, grab a coffee and a packet of chips in the break room…"

"You won't change people's habits."

"But look _where_ the new building is. Semi-industrial. No decent eating places."

Eric considered. "You're right. So what would you suggest?" He couldn't get excited about any of it, although he knew he should. Trouble was, he'd much rather be out at a crime scene. Horatio had been the same, but at least he, Eric, had someone to help, someone who seemed to thrive on this sort of stuff.

"Put in a good cafeteria. A nice place to sit and think. People'd stay on site. More efficient."

"You want to tell the Chief that?"

"Tell you what, boss - why don't I draw up a little cost/benefit sheet, then you can go and sell it to him…"

"You know I might present it as my own idea…" Eric chuckled.

"I'm only here to serve, master. Seriously though, don't you think the cost of a bit of kitchen equipment is miniscule compared with some of your fancy lab gear? Anyway, they could sub it out to a catering company."

Eric was bored. He wished he could summon up some enthusiasm for locker rooms and cafeterias. But at least he had Steve… thank goodness. He knew his assistant would do a good job, while he took what opportunities he could to do what he still thought of as his _proper_ job – that of cop and lab technician. There were times when he wished he hadn't taken the promotion, but then, he'd have ended up working for some stranger… So it could be worse, he supposed.

* * *

Christmas came and went. Chief Martinez had, surprisingly, okayed the provision of better catering facilities, and it looked as if they would have a new top-floor restaurant – a subsidised restaurant - to look forward to. The Chief had echoed Steve's words – the costs were tiny compared with other expenditure. Eric had even been congratulated on the idea, although he did admit it hadn't really come from him.

Eric was looking forward to his vacation. _New Orleans, here I come… _If he couldn't trace Horatio, then so be it. It was a city he had long wanted to visit anyway. Meanwhile, he was out of the lab, on the track of a felon who was assaulting women in broad daylight. It was a bright day – an early taste of spring – and he was enjoying himself. And they'd got lucky, or, rather, their prey had got careless…

"Pierre, you go that way, I'll go this! We should be able to head him off." After all the office work that the lab move was causing, Eric was glad to be out on the streets again. They were pursuing their suspect amongst the buildings of the downtown neighborhood.

There was a good chance of getting the man. Eric was still fit, and Pierre – Big Pete – had run for his college. Eric glanced right and left as he reached the street, barely breaking stride. He didn't see the vehicle, and didn't feel it hit him. He did remember flying through the air. He even remembered thinking 'Damn, there goes my vacation', but he didn't remember meeting the tarmac.

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 19

Eric came to in a hospital bed, with a faint familiar floral scent fighting that of disinfectant. _Calleigh… _It seemed too hard to open his eyes. He tried to work out, without moving, how hurt he was. Nothing seemed to be functioning properly, but he forced his eyes open.

"Hello, you…" Calleigh's voice was warm.

"Hi…" His voice was feeble. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hi. What happened?"

"What can you remember?"

He forced a tiny smile. "I forgot to look both ways. What's the damage?"

"Broken arm, broken ribs, and a broken hip. All on the left side. Minor concussion… I was so frightened, Eric. I mean… you were semi-conscious… but they say your head's fine." She stroked his face lightly. "So… just some broken bones…"

"Did you say hip? That sounds bad."

"It's not good, but you'll heal. It's not like elderly people breaking their hips…" She reached for some water and held a straw to his mouth.

Eric sucked it eagerly. He forced a rueful smile. "It's a bummer – I was going on vacation in a week."

"Well, you'll be on sick leave instead. Had you got plans?"

"Yes, but I guess they can wait. They'll _have_ to wait. Oh God, what a stupid thing to do!"

She smiled. "Yes, pretty stupid."

* * *

He hoped it wasn't going to be that bad, but the orthopedist soon disabused him.

"With your permission, we'll repair the arm and the hip with internal fixators – that means no heavy casts – you'll find it easier..."

"So how long?"

"Ah, you've given us a bit of a problem… You see, for a hip fracture like yours, I'd recommend light physio; that is, exercise without putting too much weight on the broken bone…"

"So?"

"That means a crutch or a cane to take the weight…" He watched realisation dawn on Eric. "See the problem?"

"My arm's broken too."

"Exactly. While plating is much better than a cast, your arm will be too weak to help your leg."

"So what can we do?"

"Just take it slower."

"Again – how long?"

"I'd guess about three months to get near normal mobility."

"_Three months?_ I can't do that!"

But he had very little option. He left the hospital after just over a week, and moved from his own place, back to his family home, where his mother and his remaining sisters were only too happy to dote on him. He returned frequently to the hospital for physiotherapy. And after a couple of weeks he hobbled in to see Chief Martinez. He was supposed to be using a wheelchair, but managed, with some pain, to use crutches. He had no intention of ever being seen in the crime lab in a wheelchair. There were only two ways he'd enter the lab – on his feet, or in a body bag.

He eased himself into a chair in front of the Chief. "I'm so sorry about this…"

"It was an accident, Eric. Accidents happen…"

"What about the lab? I could probably come in…"

"I'd rather you concentrated on getting well. I've put Ryan Wolfe in charge of the day-to-day. He seems to be making a good fist of it."

"He'll be okay."

"And Calleigh Duquesne's come back full-time, so we're not managing too badly."

Eric nodded. Calleigh hadn't mentioned that to him. He felt seriously out of the loop. "What about the move?"

"I don't want you to worry. Most of it's done, as you know. It still needs a final check, now the plans have been redrawn – make sure we've covered everything… Well, you know the drill."

"I can do that."

"You're on sick leave. About two or three months, I'm told?"

"Chief, I'm already bored stiff. I mean, I'm not sick. I just can't get around."

"I don't want you coming in here and slowing your recovery. I'm going to need you when we move." He thought for a bit. "Do you want to do some work from home?"

Eric nodded. "If you think so. You're not just inventing something for me to do?"

Martinez snorted. "Don't you know me better than that? I could just insist on sick leave, after all."

Eric stayed silent.

"I'm happy for you to give the plans a final once-over. As to _where _you do it - that's why we have computers, and I imagine young Steve will fill in any gaps. He's good, isn't he? I'd also like you to give the actual move some thought. Obviously we can't shut down, so I was thinking of moving a department or two at a time. But as they all rely on each other…"

"I can see problems…"

"So can I. But you're the best person to work that one out. We should get the keys to the new place at the beginning of April."

"Two months…"

"Give it some thought, Eric. If all goes well – with you as well as the building – we'll try to do the move over two weeks at most. Then you can take your long-delayed vacation. Which, by then, you'll most certainly need."

_Which, by then, might be too late…_

It would, by then, be over twelve months since he'd had that brief 'New Orleans' hint. He'd look for Horatio, but without much hope. He hadn't told anyone what he was doing. It had seemed such a futile endeavour…

Then he'd managed to get knocked down, and now the lab move was under way… And it would be over twelve months… And he'd had no further word from Horatio. Was it still worth going?

* * *

The lab move went surprisingly smoothly; even the lost tempers and raised blood pressures seemed to be kept to a minimum. There were glitches, to be sure, but he was pleased to have been part of the successful transition. The big, new, comfortable building would take some getting used to, but he knew, instinctively, it was going to work.

His own recovery was less perfect. He could get about well enough, he could drive, but his hip still ached fiercely, and sometimes he resorted to a cane, just for extra support. He was fairly sure his running days were over for good, and that depressed him profoundly. He hadn't even thought about diving again. Chief Martinez had been right in one thing – he was more than ready for a vacation. He got on the plane both looking forward to seeing the iconic city, and to making some progress towards finding Horatio.

The first aim was easily satisfied. It was a fascinating, wonderful place, and he was enjoying his time there. The second… nothing.

It was hopeless. He realised that now. He had no idea if Horatio was even in New Orleans. He had nothing to go on, no contacts, no addresses. That evening, he had decided to spend his last few days here as a tourist, then go home, and forget his one-time brother. He'd stop checking up on his condo, stop thinking about him. Get on with his own life. Maybe find a wife… He thought briefly about Calleigh, her kids now nearly grown up… Well, Patty a teenager, Austin at high school… Or was it college? He hadn't spent enough time with them, despite his best intentions. He needed to rectify that.

* * *

Eric was sitting on a bar stool, well into his third or fourth drink. However many, he was drunk enough to have got to the maudlin sentimental stage. Seven years… Seven years of trying to trace a man who didn't want to be found. What a waste of energy… He sighed, and signalled the barman for a refill.

"That's a mighty big sigh…"

He turned to look at the man on the neighboring stool. He was a thin black man, face deeply lined, elderly – Eric put him anywhere between seventy-five and ninety. His hair was white, though mostly hidden by a cream fedora, which he kept on, even indoors. He wore a cream suit too, a little crumpled, like its owner, but smart, even expensive, once. It was the eyes that caught him – bright and intelligent, and examining Eric with interest.

"Where you from, son?"

Eric smiled faintly. No one called him 'son' now. "Miami."

"Ah, rich man then."

He chuckled. "I do okay. My people were from Cuba." He didn't know why he added that fact. "I'm Eric."

"Malachi." He held out a bony hand. "So, Eric from Miami, don't you like my little town?"

"I like it a lot. Why?"

"Oh, you's sighin' away there, like an ol' steamboat…"

"It's just… I came looking for somebody." He must have been drunk. Before he knew it, he was pouring out the entire story of Horatio.

The old man heard him out. "A sad tale. You love dis man."

"I did. I do. But he doesn't want to be found. He doesn't want to come back."

"Maybe he don't know how to come back."

They drank in silence for a while.

"You know, Eric, dis sound like a job for my gran'daughter."

"What's she? A voodoo woman?" _Lord, Eric, you must be drunk! That was rude._

Malachi clapped his thigh and cackled with laughter. "That be mo' use! No, she's a private investigator. You got a picture of dis man of yours?"

And Eric realised he hadn't.

"No matter. He got an odd name."

"And red hair. If he hasn't gone gray. Or bald. Malachi… I don't even know he's here."

"You leave it with me. Coupla days. She owe me a favor, dat one. See if she find anything. If not…" He cackled again. "We go find us a voodoo woman."

TBC


	20. Chapter 20

TIPPING POINT

Chapter 20

Eric knew he'd drunk a lot the previous night. Too much. He was hung-over, and that for him was rare. He thought a boat trip might clear his head, but the river was choppy, and it had rather the opposite effect. He wished he hadn't confessed so much to Malachi. He didn't usually give himself away like that. He had no hope that the old man's granddaughter would be able to help. Anyway, why should she? Just as a favor to her grandfather?

Eric ate dinner at the hotel that evening, and avoided the bar. The next day, he took a trip out to one of the plantations, restored as a tourist attraction. It was enjoyable enough – an unimaginably grand and beautiful house, with long lines of live oaks – said to be over three hundred years old – shading the pathways. As for its less-than-beautiful history… that was played down, or at least sanitised. There were reconstructed slave quarters, but they seemed unnaturally clean… Almost cosy… Perhaps it was just his cynical nature… He wondered briefly what the history of Malachi's family was. He'd have liked to ask, but was afraid of seeming too nosy. Although, he hadn't managed to offend him so far, with his references to 'voodoo women'. Eric was rather ashamed. It wasn't a joke. It was much like someone in Miami mocking Santeria. _Teach him not to drink so much…_

* * *

He returned to the bar that evening. He would not have been surprised to find no trace of Malachi, but the old man was in the same seat, wearing the same clothes. As if he hadn't moved at all.

Eric bought him a drink. It didn't take Malachi long to raise the subject of Horatio.

"Well, he's not in any hotel. An' he's not registered buyin' property."

"He's probably not here at all."

"Wait, now you hear me out. She know lots of folk, my Amelie. Someone say they seen a red-haired man, often, fishin' up around Lakeshore Drive… Been here 'bout a year or mo'. He like to fish, your man?"

"He did once. He used to take his nephew."

"Worth a look then."

He supposed it was. He had nothing to lose, but how many fishing redheads were there in New Orleans? Perhaps not that many – the coloring was unusual here. So he got directions from Malachi, and promised to check it out.

* * *

Eric had to park his rental some distance away and walk. He had done too much of that the previous day, his hip ached, and he was using his cane. He had no hope that this lead was anything other than a waste of time. But he'd promised Malachi that he'd try. He was going home tomorrow. After that, no more chasing. Horatio would be consigned to the past for good.

He walked slowly towards the wooden pier. The day was still. There was a light mist in the air and the water had a smooth oily quality to it. He wondered what constituted a good fishing day. Was today one? Some people seemed to think so. At the end of the pier, their backs to him, were six or seven fishermen. All older men. Well, they would be… it was a weekday, and people had to work… And this wasn't exactly a tourist spot. All the men adopted the same stance, leaning on the rail, backs hunched. Rods were either held in their hands, or leaning against the rail. It was silent. Fishermen clearly didn't talk much.

Eric hesitated, tempted to go back. He'd come, as he'd promised Malachi. That would do… But he was here now, so he might as well ask around a bit. He wondered, for an odd moment, if he would even recognise Horatio – should he be there – after all this time. How much did someone change in seven years? A lot, if he himself was anything to go by…

Beside each man, there was a bag or box. Occasionally, one would bend and extract something – fresh bait, or a bottle of drink. Then Eric got a better look at the individual, but he recognised no one. He needed to go closer, but felt unusually reluctant. Because it was going to be a dead end, and he'd already decided it would be his final one.

He hung back, watching. Eventually, one of the fishermen realised they were being watched. He murmured something to his neighbour, and they both looked round. Neither was Horatio. Eric stepped forward, meaning to ask if they knew him. A man at the far end of the pier suddenly struck a chord with him. He stared at him. Something in his stance, an easy relaxed position, with legs crossed at the ankles, his weight on his arms, on the railings. The arms, bare in a bright-colored short-sleeved shirt, seemed to have a faint bloom of red hair. He was looking away. His hair was covered with a ball cap, but that hair was longish, and a sandy red.

Eric took a few steps closer. His voice seemed about to fail... Hoarsely, he said, "Horatio?"

The man didn't turn, but Eric saw his body stiffen. He uncrossed his ankles, and his hands appeared to tighten on the rail. "Eric?"

Then he turned. Eric had a strange sensation of everything else receding as he stared at the man in front of him. He had to hang onto his cane for support. Horatio had changed very little. If anything, the face looked younger, lined but less strained and tired than it ever had. He was thinner, though not unhealthily so. His hair, long enough to touch his collar, was a little lighter, more a sandy-blond. But, even at a distance, the eyes were as blue as ever. Even the slightly quizzical expression in them – inevitable shock fighting with his natural warmth - was the same.

He said again, "Eric…" His voice broke.

Eric's cane fell to the ground, as the two men threw their arms round each other.

"Dear God, I thought I'd never see you again…" Eric murmured.

"How did you find me?"

"Why did you go?"

The questions went unanswered, as they hugged each other. Eric felt tears on his face, his own… Maybe Horatio's too.

Then, with a faint chuckle, Horatio murmured in his ear, "They think we're gay."

Eric looked over his shoulder. The other fishermen were laughing and smiling. Two of them applauded.

"They don't seem to mind."

"Why would they? They like to see people happy. It's that sort of place, brother…"

THE END

_**(Author's note: So is that a cop-out? Hope not. They just needed to find each other. Think the conversation will go on into the night. After that, who knows?) **_


End file.
